


In The Hot Seat

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Sex Pollen, Sexual Harassment, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9011014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: For the kinkmeme: Newt Scamander sitting on Percival Graves' lap makes him very uncomfortable. Became a series due to popular demand.AKA Five contrived situations that were supposed to force Graves and Newt to get together, and one that finally did.





	1. In A Car

An aborted stake-out. An automobile. A nosy underling. Four crates of demiguise pelts.  
  
Combine all of those and apparently you get Newt Scamander on your lap.  
  
Graves tries to think of other nights that were worse (better) than this. Because this is the worst (best) night of his life, and coincidentally also the most awkward moment of his professional career. He did not claw his way up the ranks of MACUSA to end up stuffed in a muggle car smelling of fur while having to contend with a magizoologist on his lap. And yet he is. With O'Brien watching the whole thing unfold through the rearview mirror.  
  
It had started so ordinarily, too.  
  
They were supposed to be exclusively on surveillance this night around. Some tip about a black market for invisibility cloaks led him and O'Brien to a warehouse on a dimly-lit street. They were to watch the entire exchange from a muggle car. Newt Scamander was to aid them on Picquery's orders, as he was the latest consultant brought in on magizoology-related matters. Let him get used to his position, Picquery had said. Make him useful.  
  
O'Brien had somehow interpreted that differently. Which is why, when Newt Scamander freaks out upon seeing the perpetrator (as expected), and runs out of the car in pursuit (as expected), and the man simply apparates away, leaving behind crates containing demiguise pelts, the normally tetchy auror simply shrugs and lights up a cig. "Ah well," he says. "Least we got the goods. What say we bring these back to HQ, boss?"  
  
He is unusually calm. Which, for some reason, makes the normally unflappable Graves, abnormally tense. He clenches his jaw and nods. "I'll send word for these to get picked up."  
  
"Think we're spread too thin for that. Woolworth ain't more than a few blocks away. We can drop these off ourselves."  
  
Newt's constant apologizing becomes background noise as Graves levitates the crates into the car, one piled on the other on the front seat, and another pair in the back.  
  
"I trust you can handle yourself," he tells O'Brien, who smirks. The cigarette lolls on the edge of his mouth.  
  
"Ah, but what if more come back and ambush me? I think you and Scamander better stay close."  
  
"That's true, I can't leave knowing Mr. O'Brien has to deal with my mistake," Newt interjects.  
  
"We can't fit in the car," Graves says impatiently. "There's only space for one."  
  
"Two, if Scamander sits on your lap. Shouldn't be a long ride. Whaddaya say?"  
  
"No," he says firmly. "That's ridiculous."  
  
"Mr. Graves, I really think the more back-up, the better. I promise I'm not too heavy," Newt says, because he always misses the fucking point of the matter. But his eyes are wide and pleading and Graves can glare daggers all he wants at O'Brien, but he can never do the same to Newt. So he curls his lip.  
  
"Fine."  
  
And two minutes later, they're in the car. O'Brien is snickering, Newt is clueless, and Graves is suffering silently as the car hits another bump, which makes Newt bounce slightly, bottom landing against Graves' groin.  
  
"Ah, damn potholes," O'Brien says, but his mirth has never been more obvious. "Them muggle vehicles is tricky at times." His eyes are crinkled with amusement and Graves has honestly never seen him smile with so many teeth. He curses the auror and promises to make good on at least ten of those curses later.  
  
Graves closes his eyes, wondering how much more torture he can withstand. Thankfully Newt is wearing his coat so he can't feel the physiological changes threatening to happen with Graves' anatomy. But even the skinny legs covering his are warm and Newt fits in his lap perfectly like a puzzle piece, a puzzle piece he would incidentally like to press down on the leather seats and fuck raw. And because Newt's ass feels so nice against his lap Graves can't help but wonder in what other ways they could fit together perfectly, like if Newt's legs were wrapped around him or if Newt were on all fours and his body slotted right over his--  
  
"O'Brien," Graves barks. "Shouldn't we be there by now? What's the hold-up?"  
  
"I, ah, missed a turn, I think," comes his cheeky reply. "No matter, we can just circle around, right?"  
  
"You fucker," he says, foregoing all pretense because he is very _hard_ , dammit and if Newt gets an inkling he will be very _fired_ for sexual harassment, and the New York Ghost will have a field day, which would be very _bad_. But Newt shifts (why God why) and he suppresses a groan as the magizoologist flashes him a concerned look.  
  
"I'm sure Mr. O'Brien is trying his best, Mr. Graves, it's my fault and you mustn't take it out on--"  
  
"I'm not taking it out on him." There's a substantial decrease in the volume of his tone, one he reserves just for Newt, and many would call him biased because of it, but, well, it's honestly true. "I just don't want this to be more uncomfortable for you than it already is."  
  
"It's very comfortable, don't worry," Newt says with a shy smile and Graves leans his head against the window in defeat.  
  
"Hey Scamander," O'Brien leers. "Mind giving me a light? I gotta keep both hands on the wheel, you see." The cigarette is dead in his noisy mouth, and Newt moves, and his ass slides against the tip of Graves' dick to the base as he rummages in his coat for his wand. Graves fights not to thrust and ends up emitting a noise that sounds vaguely like an indignant squawk.  
  
"You alright, boss?" Newt is busy reaching over the front seat to _incendio_ the tip of O'Brien's cigarette. In doing so, the pressure on Graves' lap increases and if Newt bends any more he'll practically be grinding against him. He contemplates asking Newt nicely to sit still lest he explode. But that would be too suspicious, so Graves instead wonders if he can get away with flashing O'Brien the finger through the rearview mirror.  
  
"Peachy," he says through gritted teeth.  
  
"Great, 'cause we're here!" The car mercifully comes to a stop. The boxes are blocking his view but Graves recognizes the street, and he quickly flings open the passenger door.  
  
Newt takes ages to clamber out of the car, apologizing the whole while, and at one point he's facing Graves with their faces so close that Graves feels the breath on his lips. Every part of him is aching for Newt, thrumming with the urge to ravish him in, on top of or against this muggle contraption (he's not picky) but O'Brien is still here and that alone is an instant mood killer. So he sits still as a rock as Newt climbs off of him and gets both feet on the pavement.  
  
Graves follows, everything from the knee below feeling numb and everything from the crotch above on hyper alert.  
  
Newt bids them good night, and disapparates, not noticing Graves' wistful gaze.  
  
O'Brien lights up another cig beside him using wandless magic and he puffs out clouds of smoke unapologetically.  
  
"Get him used to his position, get him useful," he says, mimicking Picquery's authortitative tone. " That was _some position_ indeed," he continues, whistling. "I'd say mission accomplished, wouldn't you, boss?" And all those curses he had listen in his head earlier never do end up leaving his lips, because sometimes even magic is nothing compared to a good old-fashioned choke-hold. It's worth it, especially to hear O'Brien's cackle quickly morph into a surprised yelp.


	2. At The Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So due to popular demand, I've turned this into a series and I've somehow mapped out an overall story. Be warned: more cliched scenarios to come. A lot, lot more.

Graves knows that, deep down, this is Picquery's punishment for letting himself get impersonated by Grindelwald in the first place.

From being top auror he has been relegated to babysitting their newest consultant. To think he has caught New York's biggest crime lords... And yet his current assignment is a complete joke: camp at Central Park. O'Brien could barely contain his mirth when he handed Graves the case file. "Wish I could be there this time, boss," he'd said. The way he waggled his eyebrows, though implied differently. "But I wouldn't want to intrude on your, ah, _wild_ night with Newt. I'd love to hear the dirty details when you get back, though." He only shut up when Graves started threatening to lobby for a No Smoking bill. 

Graves pulls out a sleeping bag and, with another flick of his wand, lays it out on the soil. "You certain this creature isn't one of yours?" 

"You would know, Mr. Graves. You confiscated my suitcase, after all." There's a rare hint of annoyance in Newt's tone as he busies himself crawling around in the dirt, probably attempting some sort of strange tracking method. Graves looks pointedly away, reminding himself that he is not a pervert and should not be interested at all in watching Scamander on all fours. "You yourself said that all my beasts were accounted for. Besides, none of them are the sort of animals that dark wizards find interesting."

"The question is whether they unleashed the beast or if they're trying to catch it. And if it's the latter, then who set it free here in the first place?" The muggle witnesses had been unreliable, reporting only of yellow eyes and fangs, their bodies decorated with foot-long slash marks. It was, however, a sudden spike of wizard criminal activity within the park that drew the attention of MACUSA. Familiar faces on wanted posters had been sighted in alarming frequencies the past couple of days.

Newt could catch all the monsters he wanted tonight, Graves doesn't give a damn. He's more concerned with hunting people.

"We're looking at something with claws, definitely. And based on the angle of the scratch marks, it's a terrestrial creature, most likely mammalian."

"Any hunches as to what it might be, specifically?"

Newt's smile is secretive. "A few." Naturally, he doesn't divulge any information beyond that, so Graves sighs and prepares to settle into his sleeping bag. That's when he notices that Newt has stopped rolling around in the dirt and is currently standing still, staring at him anxiously.

"You'll wear yourself out if you keep watch all night, Newt. We have wards up for a reason. You should get some sleep."

"I, uh, forgot my..." He trails off, mumbling.

"What?"

"Forgot my sleeping bag," Newt repeats, reddening. "I usually sleep inside my case so I don't bring one around, but I just remembered I left my suitcase behind."

"Ah," he says, blinking. At least this time, O'Brien has nothing to do with it. Which means, he's not going to find out about any of this. "Well, get in."

Newt flinches. "I-I'm sorry?"

"This is made for two, Newt. You think MACUSA can afford to give each auror their own sleeping bag? We usually share with our partner. O'Brien _smokes_ in his sleep, if you must know. Don't ask how."

"Share it with you?" Newt's hue is starting to match the auburn of his hair. The reaction is utterly baffling to Graves, seeing as Newt didn't even blink at the notion of having to sit on his lap (which was an incident he was still trying to forget, despite O'Brien's daily reminders). Apparently shared sleeping arrangements is another thing entirely for magizoologists.

"Yes. Don't you trust me by now?"

Newt shuffles in place for a bit, his gaze shifting, panicked, between Graves and the bag. "Of course, I-- Alright."

He doesn't talk anymore after that, sliding into the bag from the side opposite of Graves. It's roomy, and he doesn't get the big deal, really; hell, there's space for a third person in between them. Newt turns over on his side, his back toward Graves. The auror can't help but admire how a couple of stray locks flutter with the breeze. The blue of Newt's coat is startling even in the dark. Graves closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

His eyes snap open the moment he hears the wards go off, a low whistle breaking the silence. The covers are gone, he realizes with a shiver. Before he can maneuver himself into a sitting position, there's a hand on his chest.

"Mr. Graves, get on top of me." Newt whispers urgently, breath ghosting over Graves' ear. The adrenaline coursing through him intensifies tenfold.

" _What?_ " He hisses. And then he hears it: a low growl somewhere beyond their heads. He turns to look at Newt, who looks downright exasperated by his protesting.

"Just do it. Roll over _now_!"

Graves curses and does what he's told, shoving himself on top of Newt in way that is carelessly rough. The man beneath him lets out a sharp breath, and Graves shakes off the rest of his grogginess and promptly realizes he is _on top of Newt what the fuck is going on_.

But Newt doesn't seem particularly concerned about Graves caging him in against the ground, hands pressed beside his shoulders, their lower extremities very much rubbing against each other in a manner that his heart rate soaring through the roof. Newt is gripping his arm, but his gaze is directed upward as he tries to catch a glimpse of the creature. Graves can feel the rise and fall of his chest, occasionally nudging against his.

"Just as I thought," Newt murmurs, and he grins at Graves. "A wampus cat."

"That doesn't explain why we're in this position," he snaps, because aside from the fact that it is really, really inappropriate, he's also downright uncomfortable, putting most of his weight on his arms so as to keep from crushing Newt.

There's a twinkle in Newt's eye, and if it weren't for the presence of a large dangerous beast then Graves would wonder if he was genuinely enjoying _this_. "He was doing a mating chuff. I know why he was drawn to this area: someone scattered female wampus secretions on purpose, hoping to attract him here. Wampus cats can smell over long distances."

Graves lifts his head. It takes a moment, but he sees it shimmery movement in the dark: a large, black and brown-pattered feline, the size of a car, is baring its jaws, having just found dinner. It emits another low growl, watching them ferociously with yellow eyes. "Get to the part about why I have to be on top of you."

"By contacting the soil with my body I covered myself in the scent. The wampus cat sees me as a potential mate. But we have to show him that I'm, uh, taken."

"It would've helped if you had told me all of this much earlier," Graves hisses. He doesn't like feeling unprepared, because, really, this is not how he expected to spent the night: on top of his attractive co-worker, but in a very unsexy scenario, both of them on the verge of being devoured.

"Sorry," Newt says sheepishly, and then cranes his head, trying to get a good look. In doing so, his body arches up against Graves'. Graves has to suppress a groan, suddenly finding it very hard not to glance at the exposed column of his throat. If he lowers himself just a few inches, his lips would be touching Newt's neck and now is not the time to be thinking of that at all, dammit. Think auror-ly thoughts. "What's he doing now?"

Spittle is dripping from the wampus' teeth as it lumbers forward on gigantic paws. Its nails are already unsheathed, looking like curved knives on the end of its feet. "Still looking like he's going to tear us limb from limb."

"That explains the growling," Newt says, blinking. He's flushed, panting and his hair is mussed. It should be a crime, Graves notes, for Newt to look freshly-fucked like this, especially during this precarious situation. "You have to be more convincing, Mr. Graves. Though it would help if I could see him from this angle. Could you lift yourself for a bit so I can flip over?"

He nods and holds his breath, hauling himself upward in an awkward pushup. His joints are burning in pain as he does it and he silently vows to retire from fieldwork tomorrow morning. Newt quickly twists and moves into a crouching position beneath him. Floppy hair tickles his lips and his view is taken over by the back of Newt's head.

"Okay, now, cover me. Make it look like we're fornicating." Graves bends his knees, legs bracketing Newt's as he hunches over him. It has now come to his attention that this is the second time in weeks that his cock is pressed against Newt's ass. It has also come to his attention that if a dark wizard or a fellow auror or a hobo were to stumble upon them right now, they would be greeted by the wonderful visage of an auror mounting a magizoologist from behind. He briefly closes his eyes and wishes for the wampus to kill them faster. When he opens them, the wampus is not more than a few feet away, growling so loudly that his ears are ringing.

"This isn't working!"

Newt shivers beneath him. "It would be more useful if you vocalized your pleasure. Make our copulation more believable."

"I am _not_ making sex noises, Newt. This time, you ask too much of me."

"Then you should--" Newt doesn't finish his sentence, instead reaching back with a single arm. Suddenly a hand is palming at his groin, quickly destroying all the effort he put into _not_ becoming erect while pressed against Newt that way. Graves jerks and grabs Newt by the coat collar.

" _What_ are you doing?" he snarls into Newt's ear, which makes him freeze.

"He can smell arousal," Newt whispers back. He shifts and Graves knows there's no way the ass pressing firmly against his groin is a mistake, not this time.

"Just tell me how we catch this thing!"

"We have to contain him. If you mark your territory around him, he won't be able to get out. I need you to draw a circle in the dirt with that branch over there. Not an oval, a circle."

"I know what a circle is," he says impatiently. With a beckon of his hand he wills the branch into the air, tilting it so that one end treads against the ground. Slowly, it's dragged along by Graves' wandless magic, etching out a curve.

When he took the qualifying tests to become an auror, he'd dealt with a set of complex problem-solving examinations . They were meant to test his resolve, discipline and wit, but creative as they were, the tests had been a far cry from "dry-hump a magizoologist in the middle of Central Park under the threat of a rampaging beast, while drawing a dirt circle".

Perspiration starts to trickle down his brows as Graves is half-way through, a crescent scrape having formed on the ground, but the wampus cat is already upon them, snorting and drooling on Newt's hair. As always, the younger male is surprisingly calm.

"I don't mean to alarm you," Newt says. "But if you can't maintain an erection for another full minute then he's going to bite my head off and mount my corpse."

"For the love of--" In his moment of sheer panic, Graves does the only thing he can think of: grab Newt around the waist and thrust violently against him. Newt gasps, his back arching against him, but Graves isn't done. He maneuvers Newt's pliant body (as well as his own) into kneeling positions, and makes a show of gripping Newt's jaw to expose his throat.

"Get back! This one's _mine_!" He practically shouts, making sure to maintain eye contact with the hulking beast all the while. It stalls, staring back at him for a moment before hissing angrily.

"Mine!" He yells again, louder, and, for good measure, bites at Newt's throat to prove his point. The redhead immediately goes rigid and squeaks in surprise, but doesn't fight back. Graves makes sure it's nothing more than a nibble, continuing to stare the wampus down. At worst, Newt will have to wear scarves everyday for a week.

It seems to have the intended effect, for the feline takes a few steps backward and roars angrily at having been beaten to the punch.

There's no point in hiding his throbbing dick now so he ends his performance by jerking his hips hard against Newt's ass. "Hard enough for you?" he whispers, enjoying the whimper he receives in return.

"T-The moment you finish the circle we can apparate out of it," Newt says. They watch the wampus narrow its eyes into slits as it spits at them but refuses to come closer. Graves nods and at last, the two ends of the circle meet. The branch topples over, and he and Newt vanish together, only to reappear outside the marked soil.

The wampus turns to face them in their new spot, but all it can do is pace inside its makeshift enclosure. Despite letting out a series of angry roars, it refuses to cross the threshold. Graves shakes its' head, pitying the stupid creature.

"Shh, you'll be fine," Newt says comfortingly. But he keeps his distance, thankfully not foolish enough to go back and try to pet it or something. "We'll find you a new home, a safe home. Right, Mr. Graves?"

They share a look, Newt's gaze trying to look for sympathy in Graves' hardened expression. Finally, he sighs. "Fine. But no one hears about what happened tonight. _Ever_." Ignoring Newt's endless string of thank you's, Graves simply watches him so he can imprint the lovely blush on his face into memory.

Naturally, a few days later, O'Brien bursts into his office looking like his day has been made. He looks at Graves with a devilish look in his eye and then screams at the top of his lungs.

"You fucked him in front of a _wampus_?!"


	3. At A Party, In A Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory "Newt has to disguise himself as a girl to help solve a case" chapter.

"Boss! Just the man I needed to see." They quickly fall in step together, or at least O'Brien tries to, while Graves noticeably quickens his pace.

"Not in the mood."

He flashes the other man a smirk. "You will be after hearing this: we recently apprehended someone who was at Central Park the night you and Newt had your little sexcapade." Graves starts to slow down. It was obvious that O'Brien caught his full attention the moment he uttered Newt's name. For such a complex man, Graves can be utterly predictable.

"He saw-? Nevermind." The impassive look remains a permanent fixture on his face despite the twitch of his jaw. "Get to the point."

"No, for your information, he didn't see. Newt's case report was confidential. For Picquery's eyes only." O'Brien spreads out his hands in a flourish. "So naturally I had to read it for myself! Want to know what he said about you?"

"No." The way Graves' gaze suddenly loses focus implies otherwise.

"Four paragraphs describing the wampus' pelt. Two paragraphs describing your engorged member. He tried to ask MACUSA to cover the charges for the multiple scarves he had to buy to cover up the 'necessary damage you had inflicted on his neck'. Eight paragraphs detailing the daily habits of the wampus since it arrived in his case. I'd say he liked the cat more than you, maybe next time you'll be the one growling in a corner while they--"

Like every conversation they've ever had in the past, O'Brien eventually strikes a nerve. Graves stops, and so does he, and they're standing in the hallway while other workers sidestep around them with looks of concern. Any time Graves is more irritable than usual, the mood of the entire building changes. That's why everyone hates O'Brien so much.

O'Brien grins, even when Graves snarls at him. "Keep this up and I'm trading you in for Fontaine."

"You hate Fontaine," he points out..

"I can't _stand_ Fontaine, but I hate _you_. There's a difference."

"Aw, I'm touched, boss," he replies, thumping a hand over his heart. "Anyway, you'll love this. Our source revealed that the man who provided the wampus musk is Lowell Bradford,"

"Bradford, huh?" A look of recognition passes through his eyes, and O'Brien knows they're imagining the iconic manor, the same smug-faced family. Having both descended from the original twelve, he and Graves have rubbed elbows with the similarly magic elite since they were in diapers. This has always cancelled out any ill will held against them for being aurors.

"There's always been rumors of a secret personal zoo, which is said to contain enough illegally endangered magical creatures to make Newt come in his pants." A vein twitches somewhere over Mr. Graves' forehead every time he says anything remotely sexual about Newt. O'Brien has known this for qute a while, which is precisely why he keeps doing it. "Strangely enough, it's never been found despite numerous raids on their estate. But if the wild after-parties are anything to go about, it exists. Luckily for us, one of those parties is happening tonight. And if the youngest Bradford likes someone well enough, he might even grant them a personal tour. But there's a catch."

Graves' face sours further, if that were even possible. Tonight is going to be amazing, O'Brien concludes.  
\--

"Can you _believe_ no female auror can join us tonight? There's just no point in going, I suppose." He lets out a melodramatic sigh and presses his face against his palm, an action that Newt matches with an equally devastated look. He is unaware of the smile O'Brien hides behind his hand, the poor gullible thing. "Unless we hit Bradford with a sexuality-reversal potion, but that could easily turn messy."

"We can still go?" Newt suggests, reminding the two aurors that they're in the company of a man who would travel through seven circles of hell to save a flobberworm. "Any information we can find out would be one step closer to solving the case."

From behind his desk, Graves watches their interaction with bemusement. " _You_ are not going," he says, eyeing Newt. "It's too unsafe, and your presence would be a huge red flag. Everyone knows what you look like after the Grindelwald debacle."

"You say that like I'm famous. And I can handle myself." He doesn't exactly help his case by puffing his cheeks up like that, like a child. Graves sighs very pointedly at him. O'Brien glances back and forth between them before setting his genius plan into action.

"Hmm, hmm, hmm, if only there was a way to, maybe, magically produce a woman that would fit Bradford's type." He stretches his arms, fake-yawning, before planting one around Newt's shoulders and leaning into him. "You know he has a penchant for slender redheads?"

"O'Brien," Graves says in a warning tone.

"If only..." Newt murmurs absently. He's still staring straight ahead and lamenting all the animals he won't be able to save tonight.

Unfettered, O'Brien keeps going. "If _only_ we had someone who could convincingly pass off as a woman, hmm?" While Newt continues to be completely oblivious, Graves is practically steaming around the ears. "Maybe, someone with soulful eyes, lips that would look stunning if you slapped some red on 'em, and cheekbones that would go perfectly with a bit of rouge. If only! Do you know anyone who might fit that description? Newt?"

Newt shakes his head. "I am sorry, Mr. O'Brien, I don't have many acquaintances and can't think of anyone who fits that oddly specific set of criteria."

"Are you sure?"

Graves slams his hands on the desk, making both of them jump. "Stop it, both of you. We're not putting Newt in a dress and taking him with us. Enough of your god awful ideas."

" _Me_?" Newt squawks. "I-I'm not--"

"Think about it," O'Brien interrupts, pulling Newt closer while Graves glares daggers at them. "Bradford is an animal lover. Who else could be able to seduce him with their feminine wiles and substantial knowledge on magical creatures?"

"I just said we're not doing this. Drop it already."

O'Brien ignores him and says the magic words: "Think of all the animals we're saving, Newt."

As if a charm has just been cast over him, Newt's eyes widen in realization before he flushes a deep scarlet and starts tugging self-consciously at his sleeve. "Maybe I should do it? That is, if we have no other choice."

"Over my dead body!" It is said with utter finality. Graves is standing now, spreading an authoritative shadow over them both. But Newt's gaze fixates (a rare occurrence), on Graves, challenging him. He bites his lip.

O'Brien smirks. Jackpot.

\--

"Just kill me."

He knows he wasn't meant to hear that, what with Graves muttering under his breath for half an hour, so O'Brien just gives him a teasing nudge. It would help if Graves were in a better mood, considering they're about to attend a party and those aren't too fun when your partner is determined to remind everyone that he's the least enthusiastic party-goer on earth.

"Don't leave this earth just yet. Your date hasn't even gotten here." Newt is thirty minutes late. O'Brien was only there to see the beginning of his transformation at the hands of about seven female aurors wielding make-up brushes(the same ones who had sworn they were too 'busy' to go on duty tonight). He had left Newt at their mercy and apparated home to put on dress robes and have a preparatory smoke. That was approximately five hours ago. Now he's not quite sure if it is very good or very bad that they're taking this long to turn Newt into a woman.

Graves continues to stand there like a statue -- and what an impeccable, glorious chiseled statue he makes, O'Brien admits grudgingly. In perfectly-tailored dress robes are a smooth flowing burgundy, contrasted with his plain black one borrowed from a distant relative. "I don't need to be a seer to know this is all going to go horribly wrong."

"You don't trust Newt?" O'Brien asks as he fiddles with his rumpled cuffs. Perhaps he should've ironed the robes beforehand.

"Of course I do," Graves answers without pause. "But you want to leave him alone with someone like Bradford."

"That's why we have these, don't we?" He taps the boutonniere on his lapel, a dome-shaped blue flower that they've transfigured to serve as an apt communications system for short distances. Graves makes a noncommital sound. O'Brien looks at his and sees that it has been embellished with a scorpion pin.

"Where is he? Our floo room reservation is about to run out, for god's sake." O'Brien merely rolls his eyes and lights up his third stick. As if Graves can't take over anyone's floo whenever he likes! The bastard is far too eager to see Newt in a skirt.

" _She_ ," he corrects. "But we need to come up with a--"

The fireplace they've been watching for thirty minutes roars to life, turning a brilliant shade of green. A tall figure materializes and climbs out of it, wiping cinders off their arms.

"Code... Name," The words trail off and beside him, Graves goes rigid.

In place of Newt Scamander, a gorgeous red-haired woman fidgets before them. His hair has lengthened slightly. It has sustained its waviness, pinned to one side by a gold laurel leaf pin spelled the same as their boutonnieres. The aurors clearly chose to emphasize his eyes (a wise choice) and they've never looked greener, bordered by layers of dark make up. Like O'Brien thought, the painted lips and now rose-colored cheeks erase any doubts a stranger would have about Newt being female.

And now Newt is biting those red lips, which always appeared adorable but now looks downright sinful.

O'Brien whistles, puts out his cigarette in order to do so. Newt makes one _hell_ of a dame in that green flapper dress, sheer and lacy until above the knee, from which point downward it trails off in a curtain of tassels. The girls must've legilimens'd their way into Graves' wet dreams, based on the look of the frozen figure beside him. His eyebrows are nearly reaching his hairline and his lips remain pursed, as if he's biting back several strongly-worded comments about the number of dress codes Newt is breaking.

"Newt, careful where you step. You might trip over Graves' jaw, he dropped it somewhere around here."

Newt does one of his famous half-smiles, looking down at his own fingers as he speaks. "Do I look alright?"

O'Brien turns his head to view Graves' reaction. But the head auror looks seconds away from having a stroke. So he elbows him in the ribs. Graves lets out a winded noise before finally answering. "You look... Alright."

"Oh," Newt says quietly, shadowy eyelids lowering a fraction. O'Brien has to keep from slapping a hand to his forehead in frustration.

"What the Boss means here is that you look like a total knock-out. We'll have to beat off men with sticks."

"Sticks?" Newt looks perplexed at the idea. "A simple stunning spell would require a lot less effort."

He shakes his head. "Times like these, Newt, I still can't believe you're real." Newt gives a proper smile this time, showing a lovely set of teeth. The action leaves O'Brien's breath caught in his throat. Meaning Bradford won't stand a chance.

"Can we go already?" Graves suddenly barks. "Before I change my mind."

"I'm, ah, not exactly accustomed to walking in heels." To illustrate his point, Newt waddles over to them, shoes clacking on the ground. The heels are not more than an inch thick, presumably so Newt doesn't tower over everyone else at the party. "I feel like a baby mooncalf."

Graves holds out his arm. "Hold on to me so we don't look so suspicious," he says, sounding like someone ordering their secretary to get them a coffee. Newt stares for a moment before clutching the billowy sleeve with his gloved hand.

O'Brien sighs aggressively at them and holds out the bag of Floo powder.

\--

"Percival B. Graves, how nice that you could finally be present for one of our signature Bradford gatherings." The butler greets them as Graves climbs out of the fireplace first, assisting a wobbly Newt while O'Brien waits behind them. He has a lovely view of the interior of the chimney. There's ash in his shoes. His soles leave imprints when he steps onto the hardwood, and the butler casts him a scathing look.

"The same goes for you, Mr. Lyle E. A. O'Brien. And your guest's name is, Miss...?"

There's an awkward bout of glancing at each other uneasily before Newt answers. "Artemis. Er, Artemis Kowalski."

Both men peer at Newt curiously as they make their way out of one of many of the Bradford manor's lavish living rooms and into the ballroom. "It's my middle name," Newt explains, shielding his reddening face by swiping at his hair. He clings to Graves' elbow again and O'Brien flanks him from the other side, thinking that if Graves' back could get any stiffer then he could be used to prop up the Chrysler.

O'Brien immediately rounds on Newt when the butler is out of sight. "Your middle name is _Artemis_?"

"It is," Newt stammers, and in a rare display of social conduct, tries to further the conversation. "What's yours?" At that, O'Brien and Graves both look away, O'Brien snickering while Graves' lips form a thin line. "Why aren't you telling me?"

"In due time, darlin'." They've reached the ballroom, and a flood of noise swells up instantly. Hundreds of people are milling about in formal wear, a goblin band playing on a stage adjacent to a grand staircase. Some are dancing in the center, while a large fraction converse with each other in the sidelines, drinks in hand. There's a surprising lack of animal presence considering the Bradford son's reputation.

O'Brien sees their target across the room and leans into Newt. "See that man over there? With the mustache that looks drawn on and the pinstriped dress robes the color of vomit? That's Lowell Bradford. Might want to know the name you'll be screaming tonight."

Right on cue, Graves cuts in and tugs his arm out of Newt's grip so he can shove O'Brien away from the flustered male. "Lyle Elizabeth Alton O'Brien, kindly shut the fuck up."

"That's low!" O'Brien protests, rubbing his sore arm. "That's really low!"

"Elizabeth?" Newt repeats, blinking.

"Yes, _Artemis_." He's suddenly itching for a smoke. And a chance to get back at Graves. "It's goddamn _Elizabeth_ , and _Alton_ , I'm both a milkmaid and an innkeeper apparently, but at least my name is still not as silly as Graves'--"

"As Head of Magical Security, I forbid you to finish that sentence." Graves looks smug as O'Brien falls quiet, mouthing a _fuck you_ back at him. Newt witnesses the exchange with mild alarm. He's always been baffled by the ways in which he and Graves constantly go at each other. "Now excuse me, I'm going to go get some drinks."

Graves vanishes into the crowd, not noticing the disappointed look on Newt's face.

"Do you think he finds me attractive?" The younger male asks, after a moment's silence. But O'Brien's still smarting from Graves exposing his deep, dark secret so he doesn't think much of the question.

"Bradford? I don't think he's even spotted you yet. But no doubt he will, my dear Artemis. I've already seen a bunch give you the ol' up and down the moment you stepped in."

"I didn't mean-- oh, nevermind." Newt crosses his arms, unnecessarily petulant. The act emphasizes his trim waist, hourglass-shaped in that fitting dress. O'Brien wasn't lying about the appreciative looks, the once-overs settling with glances at Newt's hips. He can only imagine how much convincing it took for Newt to put on a corset (or three, from the looks of it). Graves is probably getting smashed right now to distract himself from wanting to tear it open.

The music has started picking up, people whooping as their maneuvers become more exaggerated. O'Brien shoots Newt his trademark smirk, and realizes it's the perfect opportunity to get back at his partner. He holds out his hand expectantly, and to his credit Newt only takes a few seconds to realize what's going on.

He takes two clunky steps back and shakes his head. "I don't dance."

Naturally, it does nothing to deter O'Brien. "Correction: _Newt Scamander_ doesn't dance. But Artemis Kowalski does, and she does a fantastic Crup Trot and she's gonna have my head spinning by the time this number's over. C'mon and let's give them a show."

Newt reluctantly slips fingers into his. He thumbs at the silky fabric of the gloves and hauls his partner to the center of the room. Suddenly, a muffled voice startles them both.

"What are you two doing?" It's Graves', coming from the boutonniere and Newt's hairpin, because of _course_ he was watching the whole time. O'Brien laughs, enjoying their little spell more than he should. He tilts his head lower so he can speak into the flower.

"I'm enacting my plan, Boss. Watch and learn."

He does a series of quicksteps which makes Newt giggle. It takes a while to convince the magizoologist to copy his movements, but minutes later it's apparent that Newt has reconciled the movements with that of just another mating dance. O'Brien keeps his steps simple and slower than the required tempo so Newt can keep up even while wearing heels. The songs get quicker and Newt becomes game enough for O'Brien to grab his hand and twirl him around, fellow dancers nearby whooping at their enthusiasm.

"He's looking. At Newt." Graves chimes in again, sounding like it pains him to say it. O'Brien just nods and coaxes away Newt's anxious shuffling by leading him into another series of fast stomps on the floor as the crescendo of trumpets signals the climax of the song.

They end mirroring each other in a ridiculous pose, bowed with bodies twisted and hands widespread and Newt clumsily copying O'Brien to a tee. The crowd applauds and Newt looks around, surprised, before smiling at him. A triumphant sensation fills O'Brien, knowing that he'd just gotten Newt to enjoy something unrelated to animals. It warms his heart even further to feel the murderous glare that Graves is sending his way.

Sure enough, the auror swoops in right when they reach the the tables. O'Brien passes Newt a drink, and the redhead has barely gotten a sip in when Graves offers his hand.

"May I?"

Newt stares at him through thick eyelashes, and hot _damn_ the sultriness makes even O'Brien gulp. He never thought Newt would get into this 'being a girl' thing so quickly and so damn well.

"I'm sort of tired from all the dancing I just did with Mr. O'Brien." Female Newt is, apparently, slightly more catty than the original.

"This one is a slow dance," Graves says, and that's a pleading look if O'Brien ever saw one. "I won't have you twirling about or risking twisting your ankle while you're wearing such impractical shoes." He glances at O'Brien as if that had been his intent all along.

Newt chews at his lip, baffled at Graves' persistence. O'Brien takes a long swig from his glass, happily witnessing the show.

Graves' hand remains suspended in the air, waiting for Newt. "Please do me the honor of dancing with me, Artemis. Just once." He says, voice dropping to a low growl. Even O'Brien doesn't miss Newt's sharp intake of breath. They seem to have forgotten he's even present, the atmosphere sizzling around them as Newt clasps his hand and Graves leads him back to the dance floor.

Newt is back in the middle, where everyone -- especially Bradford -- can see as Graves pulls him close and settles a hand on the small of his back. They sway to a slow waltz. O'Brien smiles at them fondly, imagining just how many permutations of red Newt must be turning.

He steps outside at the gardens for a smoke, entertaining himself by listening to his boutonniere.

"What's your middle name?" Newt asks, and Graves' resounding voice is so gentle it doesn't sound much like him at all.

"Why would you like to know?"

"So I could get to know you better." There's a pause. "Is that not what social functions like these are supposed to accomplish?"

"I can't tell you just yet."

"Even though I'm your date?"

"Even though you're more striking than anyone else in this room."

Snorting, O'Brien unpins the boutonniere and pockets it. _Smooth, Graves,_ he has to admit. Cheesy as hell, though; he might throw up if he has to listen to Graves' idea of flirting for one more second.

\--

The hand is warm on his shoulder as they enjoy the rest of their dance in silence. Graves relishes the moment for as long as possible, silently cheering that for once their close contact has not been the result of any beastly interference. But perhaps that's why Newt is far more quiet this time around, glancing at him on occasion before turning his gaze back to the scorpion at his lapels. He's probably wishing it would come to life so the party would finally get interesting.

Newt's pale, delicate neck is free from any blemishes he inflicted a week ago. There's a mortified curl in Graves stomach as he recalls that embarrassing night. But with Newt thrown into his arms by fate again, now he's at a loss what to do. Compliments die in his throat before he can utter them, so he just stares even if Newt won't look back.

The music stops and the crowd applauds again, Newt and Graves among the couples that leave the floor. "Thank you," Graves says, stopping and kissing Newt's hand. The redhead smiles, embarrassed, and nods.

"Y-yes," Newt replies, at a loss for words. Right when Graves drops Newt's hand, a middle-aged gentleman edges his way between them and asks Newt for a dance.

Graves nods, mouthing ' _go ahead_ ' after Newt flashes him a panicked look. Reluctantly he escorts his new dance partner back to the center while the auror scans the crowd. He sees Bradford, surrounded by ladies and laughing uproariously. Every now and then he cranes his neck, gaze finding Newt.

Under his billowy sleeves, Graves' fists are balled up, knuckles whitening.

Three dance partners later and Newt looks ready to faint, having been on his feet all night. They share an incredulous look from across the room as Newt's latest companion stumbles over Newt's heels as the song ends. Apologizing profusely, the man departs, hopefully signaling the end of Newt's suffering. While Graves... Graves has been downing as many glasses of champagne as he can muster, having watched (and listened to) the awkward advances of progressively sleazier men on his... Favorite consultant.

Graves sees Newt's shoulders relax as he finally makes his way back to the sidelines, hair slightly mussed. Until someone grabs his elbow and spins him around. Sobering immediately, Graves sets down the glass and touches his boutonniere.

"O'Brien, you there? Bradford has finally struck."

"I've been watching you," Bradford says. Only a prick would really consider that a flattering pick-up line. Graves maneuvers his way to get a better view of the two, barely visible through the dancing crowd.

"Mr. Bradford," Newt murmurs. Then there's silence.

"Talk to him about animals," Graves whispers frantically to his lapel.

"Erm, have you noticed the design on my dress?" From his new vantage point on the staircase, Graves can spot their moving figures. Bradford is leading Newt away with an arresting grip on his elbow.

"As a matter of fact, I have," Bradford replies. "Phoenix, right? You can tell from the spread of the primary feathers, even though it's a yellow design on green, colors usually associated with a fwooper."

"I heard the rumors, but I didn't think you would be so knowledgeable about beasts." Newt sounds genuinely impressed.

"The zoo," Graves mutters. "Ask him about the zoo."

"Um." Newt brushes his hand through his hair nervously as Bradford tugs him out of the ballroom. They've disappeared from Graves' sight. A pang of concern bubbles up in his chest. "I've never seen a phoenix before. I've always wanted to meet one." Newt's voice is fainter now; he's too far for the spell to effect properly. Graves strides after them, but enters the hallway and finds that they've disappeared. There's an elevator straight ahead, but also at least five possible corridors they could've chosen instead.

"Oh, have I got a surprise for _you_ , darlin'. But first..." The rest of it dies and Graves breaks into a run.

"O'Brien!" He growls. "Where the hell are you? We've lost Artemis!" There's no response and he swears, fishing for his wand. They must've disapparated.

"Point me. Newt Scamander," he chants, and the wand spins in his hand before tilting upward, glowing yellow at the tip. He heads for the elevator, but a man steps into view from the adjacent hallway.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this area is forbidden to guests. Only a select few may accompany a Bradford past this--"

" _Stupefy!_ " Graves snarls. The man falls unconscious at his feet and he steps over the body, breaking into a run for the elevator. They've gotten Newt into another precarious situation and he wouldn't forgive himself if--

"Where are we? What are you doing?" Panic is evident in Newt's voice, growing louder as the elevator ascends. He's close. Graves does another _Point Me_ to figure out the right floor, stopping at the third.

"Let's cut the chit-chat. We both know what you're really here for."

"I don't understand--" There's a nervous laugh, followed by a ruffling sound. "I thought you were going to give me a surprise?"

"I'll give you something better, doll." Newt's muffled shout immediately has Graves breaking into a sprint. He traverses the labyrinth of a manor with several more _Point Me's_ , hearing the torturous sounds of a struggle in the process.

Graves bursts through the door, fearing the worst. The pounding in his chest drowns out everything else, but relief washes over him when he sees Bradford still clothed.

But that same Bradford is currently pinning Newt to the bed. Hands have disappeared under Newt's skirt, trying to force his legs open while the magizoologist makes feeble attempts to push away the wandering fingers.

"C'mon, babe, give Daddy some sugar, come on," Bradford is muttering, mouthing at Newt's neck and ignoring his cries of "Please, please stop," and after that Graves can't stand to hear anymore. With a flick of the wrist Bradford is wrenched into the air. There is no time to register surprise the man is flung into the wall, and Graves relishes the loud slam of his body before it slides down to the carpet, motionless.

Graves stalks over to the bed and hauls Newt upward. He looks terrified but still unfairly gorgeous under the smudged makeup, eyes round and lipstick smeared past the corner of his lips. But Graves silently gauges the damage that has been done, what _could_ been done and before he can control himself the anger comes pouring out.

"Were you just going to let him have his way with you?!" He yells right in Newt's face. The redhead is shaking, hugging himself with bare arms. One of the straps of the dress has slipped off a milky shoulder. He's looking straight ahead, right through Graves.

"This is the last time we're taking you with us. It's too dangerous and the field is no place for someone like --" Newt is unresponsive, and guilt claws at him so he backtracks and tries again. "You almost got hurt. You _did_ get hurt. No amount of training can prepare anyone for the utter filth we have to deal with on a daily basis and you shouldn't have to be a part of this, Newt, you can't keep trying to appeal to their humanity because they have absolutely none."

He falls quiet, panting, and sits on the bed next to Newt. The other male is clearly in shock, shallow breaths intermingling with Graves'.

"I'm so sorry!" Newt cries out. Graves gets a momentary glance at the tears spilling down his cheeks before Newt shoves forward and pushes his face into Graves' chest, hands twisted in the fabric of his dress robes.

"I did not know, I didn't even realize what was going on until --" He breaks off into a shudder and his grip tightens. "I never once thought he would. I thought I was safe, I didn't take into account what could happen... What _has_ happened to women. It's awful. How can people treat them this way?"

With a cute magizoologist in drag sobbing into his arms, Graves is left nonplussed, paralyzed as warmth spreads over his chest.

"Shh," he says, rubbing circles on the smaller male's back. He can't stop the smile from forming. Trust Newt to not care about himself, for he would rather weep for the problems of womankind instead.

"It's alright," he says, even though it contradicts the admonishing rant he just inflicted on Newt minutes ago. So he tacks on "Not your fault," at the end. Newt's face is pressed against his body, wetting his clothes. He strokes Newt's hair comfortingly until the trembling stops, and comes to a decision.

"Billy."

"What?" Newt asks, voice muffled.

"Billy is my middle name. Percival Billy Graves." Newt pushes himself off and peers at him, eyes puffy but skeptical. Graves has to hold back a laugh at his perplexion.

"Billy, as in billywig?"

"Yes," he responds. Whatever that means.

"It's," Newt says, sniffling. "Oddly fitting."

"Pray tell, why do you say so? Because I no longer talk to the uncle who's the reason that name was bestowed on me."

"It's a large insect," Newt explains, looking and sounding more like his normal self. Graves waits for the rest, because being compared to a large insect may be flattery to Newt, but certainly not to him.  "...That shines a brilliant blue but most people don't notice it unless they're looking for it. But the billywig stings people, and people expect their stings to hurt; but surprisingly it makes them happy, and gives them the added capability of flight."

With a wan smile, he continues. "W-what I mean to say is you've helped me so much when at first I didn't expect you to, because you seem kind of..." Graves never hears the rest of his sentence, for Newt reddens and looks down. "For that, you're like a billywig, and I thank you."

Great, now he'll have to read up on billywigs.

"Your mascara's running." His hand hovers over Newt's skin, reluctant in fear of scaring Newt. "Is it okay if I...?" But he receives a nod in return and Graves swipes his thumb across Newt's cheek. magicking away the smears. He does the same thing for the lipstick stains and to his credit, Newt looks calm rather than wary.

"Next time, don't hide your freckles. They don't make you look any less stunning, you know." He adjusts the laurel leaf pin, re-clipping it to the side of Newt's hair.

"I'll keep that in mind," Newt replies, with a flutter of eyelashes that has got to be intentional, Merlin have mercy. His female alter-ego is back in full force, without trace of any blemish or tears.

There's two last matters to take care of. Graves traces the loose strap of Newt's dress. He milks the moment for all he can before righting it with an upward tug. Then his hand travels south, at the junction of skin between the skirt and stockings. The garter has been ripped from the belt, a frilly bit of lace hanging loose around Newt's thigh. Graves pulls it taut and with a wordless spell, returns it to the belt strap peeking out from under the dress' edge.

He moves to withdraw his hand, but Newt's palm covers it instead, keeping it on his leg.

Newt is looking at him. A soft pink tongue darts out and he licks his lips. Graves is entranced, drawing nearer. His last thought is _I suppose it's about time_ before he closes the distance between them, Newt's eyes squeezing shut expectantly and--

"STOP, YOU FIEND!" O'Brien flies into the room, having embellished his grand entrance with a levitation spell, no doubt. Graves stands with his wand in his grip, and aims at his partner's crotch. "UNHAND THAT FAIR MAIDEN YOU--"

O'Brien lets out a howl of pain before grabbing at his groin. He falls to his knees dramatically, yelling "Why does it always gotta be in the balls?!"

"That's for going AWOL when you were sorely needed," Graves says, staring at him in disdain. "Now stop sniveling and interrogate this other idiot." He points to the prone form of Bradford, before turning around and flashing Newt an apologetic look.

"Percival Billy Graves," Newt scolds, shaking his head. "That was unnecessary, you know." But his smile toward him is playful, making Graves forget that their latest romantic interaction just occurred in the same room as an unconscious criminal and a caterwauling auror.

Later that night he goes home, slides out of his dress robes and rolls into bed. It's difficult to sleep when all he can think of are a familiar pair of green eyes, and of ripping off garter belts with his teeth.

He ends up jacking off for two hours, a newfound appreciation for the way his middle name sounds when coming out of Newt's painted lips.


	4. By The Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves bans Newt from participating in missions. Newt still finds a way.

As Graves steps into The Horny Serpent, he takes solace in the fact that tonight he's going to suffer alone, unwatched. As the name suggests, The Horny Serpent is as tacky as it is sinister. It also makes Gnarlak's look like a day care center, so he would rather take the place on by himself than wish this assignment on anyone. Considered the den of some of the most powerful and depraved magicfolk in the city, the establishment has shaken off a never-ending onslaught of lawsuits and criminal charges. Its survival is proof that the auror division can pull all the strings of MACUSA it wants but there will always be a corrupt official gripping the thread from the other end.

It also happens to be the latest stop for their increasingly convoluted "Animals In Distress" case, which has now expanded to include pretty much every species in the western hemisphere. O'Brien's interrogation of Bradford had yielded interesting results: they found the zoo, with its animals in sorry states. Unicorns with their horns shorn off, balding phoenixes, among other maimed and malnourished animals. Bradford had harvested them under the orders of Walter Zigart, shipping company mogul and infamous sleaze.

Despite seeming like a never-ending chain of mobsters pointing fingers at each other, Graves and O'Brien decided it would be best that he arranged a one-on-one meeting with the man himself. Newt, of course, hadn't taken their decision well. Moreover because Graves had banned him outright from ever accompanying them on the field again. Not after the encounter with Bradford, or as O'Brien called it, "Sexy Incident Number Three". 

Newt immediately reacted with pitiful glances and copious lip-biting. O'Brien, who had to have a name for everything, dubbed it "The Look". Graves long insisted he was immune to The Look. After all, he was a frequent recipient of it: from secretaries, people trying to get out of charges, even by younger callgirls on the street. He had brought up that point with O'Brien, who cheekily replied "Yes, but none of them are Newt Scamander", at which point Graves doused his light with an _Aguamenti_.

Finally realizing that The Look was not going to work this time, Newt became irritated, even snippy with Graves. "How do you expect to solve the case without the help of someone with expertise?" Graves found himself on the receiving end of a withering look, and it was irksome. Newt, of all people, treating him like he couldn't tie his own shoelaces. It allowed him to quickly put aside his sympathy and went into full auror mode.

"My decision is final, Newt," he said curtly. "Someday you'll understand that I'm doing this to protect you."

"Thanks then, _daddy_ ," Newt had replied, rolling his eyes. With a huff he strode out of the room, flinging open the door only to close it gently behind him.

O'Brien and Graves stared after him in shock. Graves cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably behind his desk.

O'Brien opened his mouth. "Did he just say--"

"Yes, he did."

"But he obviously didn't mean--"

"No, of course he didn't." He buried his face into his hands when O'Brien's giggling turned into mad laughter.

"Wow," O'Brien said, exhaling loudly. "And he couldn't even bring himself to slam the door properly. You sure know how to pick 'em, Boss."

Newt stopped showing up at the office that week. O'Brien made at least twenty _'daddy'_ jokes within that same timespan.

The magizoologist is probably sulking right now, but at least he's sulking inside his suitcase, with at least a dozen new creatures in there to cheer him up. Newt surrounded by wild animals fits Graves' definition of safe, somehow.

He thinks of Newt's warm smile and wide-eyed wonder to counter the chill shooting up his spine as he crosses the threshold. He steps through some gaudy red curtains and into the... Bar? Brothel? This place can be both and neither and more, depending on one's proclivities. 

_Leave behind not just your wand / But also your reservations / Only then can you come upon / This place full of grand revelations_

The terrible slogan floats in the air, hanging beneath the ceiling like a banner and occasionally changing colors. But Graves has long been aware of their traditions. His pockets are empty, wand back home rather than ending up who-knows-where if it's confiscated.

A dame with her breasts out immediately winks at Graves. She's seated on a barstool and uncrosses her legs very deliberately, but it's too late. His attention has been caught by a hundred more provocative things in the room: goblins dancing on tables while a crowd of men cheer, pixies that were hit with Engorgement charms led around on leashes. The girl who winked isn't even the most underdressed person there, not by a longshot. Topping off the debauchery of the scene is a hazy cloud of smoke, the only thing cloaking the shamelessness of workers and patrons alike. The mist would make even O'Brien gag.

Graves flags down a waiter -- if you can call him that, for it's a boy dressed in nothing but leather pants -- and asks to be seen to Zigart's booth.

"Ain't here yet," the boy shrugs, and turns around. Ass-less leather pants, it turns out. Graves is left with the awkward choices of either beating Zigart to his own booth (which would be rude) or posing as a regular to pass the time. He grabs a table and orders a drink, peering around even though the sights make his eyes ache.

A glass is set down in front of him, but done so clumsily that the liquid inside sloshes, and whiskey spills on the table.

"Sorry," a different waiter mutters, summoning a rag to clean up the mess. The voice sounds awfully familiar. Graves looks up and promptly dies a little inside.

The shock of seeing Newt Scamander has him getting to his feet immediately, the chair scraping backward with a loud creak. "You," he chokes out. His brain fizzles to a halt as he takes in the sight of Newt, who is standing before him. Shirtless. With mismatched jewels around his neck. Instead of the mop flopped to the side that he usually passes off as hair, his curls are neat and high above his head, colored varying shades of red and gold.

But more importantly. Shirtless.

He's wearing some sort of chain belt around his hips, a long cloth danging at the front and back to conceal whatever underwear he has on -- if, Graves thinks, he's wearing any at all. He's not about to cock his head sideways to check. Because that would be _crass_.

"Mr. Graves!" Newt exclaims, blinking and red-faced. Fingers are suddenly gripping his lapels and Newt hauls him into one of the private booths, quickly tugging the curtain closed behind them. Graves is pushed down onto a leather seat. "Please don't blow my cover," Newt says, and he looks hot -- no, irritated. Hotly irritated. All Graves can do is let out a noise of frustration. Why is it that every time he tries to do his job, a scantily-clad Brit is thrown in his way?

He tries not to look down even though it's very difficult not to, making sure to keep his eyes on Newt's face. It feels like their personalities have switched: since when has eye contact been hard for him? And why is Newt staring at him like he just slaughtered a niffler?

"You said my real name out loud and then conspicuously pulled me into a booth so who's blowing whose cover here, exactly?" Graves' gaze flickers again and his voice comes out strained. "And what in Salem are you wearing?"

"I was here first," Newt insists, rocking from one heel to the other. Because of that, his belt makes a clinking sound like he's... Performing, and Graves again has to force himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. But before he can interrupt, Newt goes on proudly. "I've been collecting information from Zigart ever since -- and I've tampered with enough of his freighters to delay the shipments indefinitely. You don't need to be here and it's best that you leave. I've got it all under control."

And before Graves can protest further, Newt turns around and leaves. No ass-less chaps, but a similar cloth that dangles from the belt and covers his rear matches the one in the front. Between a mixture of frustration and confusion, he almost feels disappointed.

\--

It doesn't take long before he's summoned to a private room. He's escorted through a hallway, passing men in low-tipped fedoras. They press themselves against the wall to clear a path for him. Zigart's paranoia is painfully obvious. He counts twenty-three of them, aside from the two who step into the room with him and situate themselves by the door.

The room is large enough to host a sizeable party, but tonight it's sparsely furnished. Two couches face each other with a coffee table between them. A bald, shining head is visible over the back of one of the couches, along with an arm brandishing a cigar, and Graves walks around to occupy the other sofa.

_Fuck. Me._

Despite having just bumped into him a few minutes ago, Newt is the last person he expects to see with Zigart.

Newt, still in his hardly-there clothing, is sprawled on the couch in front of him, bare legs draped across the burly man's lap. A meaty arm is draped around his waist, Zigart's hand gripping the end of a silver chain. The links end at a clasp attached to the necklace around his neck. But Newt's shoulders are relaxed, leaning against the touch. Completely at ease with being treated as decoration, his face is impassive, almost bored.

Graves is left slack-jawed. There's an uncomfortable twist in the pit of his belly.

"Percival Graves," Zigart croaks, sour-faced. His heavyset chest strains against a tweed suit. His cheeks scrunch together in what Graves assumes is supposed to be a smile. Cigar dangling from his right arm, Newt tucked under his left. His filthy fingers dancing on Newt's waist. Newt shirtless, his pale skin almost blinding.

Graves had a script in his head for tonight and it just completely went up in flames.

"Mr. Zigart, thank you for agreeing to meet with me." His gaze is trained on Newt but the latter only has eyes for Zigart, it seems. Which is just downright unfair, not to mention inconsistent with his prior behavior. A short while back he was decrying the depravities of men and now he's cozying up to one with practiced ease. Maybe he's finally cracked? At this rate, Graves will soon follow suit. _“By gods,”_ O'Brien would say. _“We've turned our sweet little Newt into a slut.”_

"What have I done this time, and how do I get you to make it go away?" He punctuates his dismissive tone with a slurp of his cigar. The hand then perches on Newt's knee, and Graves watches Newt for signs of discomfort and there's... Not even a flinch.

"All I want is information." Newt won't return his gaze though that is nothing new. _How long_ , Graves implores silently. _How long has he been lending his body to this demon of a man, to the extent that touches have stopped phasing him?_

"Hmm. You sound like you already have it.” Zigart laughs, the way one would when revealing that they've pulled one over you. Graves doesn't give a damn about _that_ , but he _is_ picturing cutting off those sausage fingers one by one if they keep brushing Newt's waist like that. “You just want to confirm whether the information is correct."

He allows himself a tiny smirk. "That's usually what investigations entail, Mr. Zigart.”

Finally, Newt stops pretending not to notice him. Graves notices the flicker of a glance. Their eyes meet, briefly. Newt looks pleading, begging not for freedom but for Graves' cooperation and that's just – it stings, knowing that he has no faith in Graves. Though it's not as if he's been treating Newt the same way, handling him with kid gloves. A moment later Newt goes back to playing Zigart's doll, actually nuzzling against the embrace. 

There's a hot flash of pain pulsing in his chest. It's unmistakeably jealousy, mixed in with indignation on Newt's behalf. _How far would he go to debase himself for the sake of some fucking animals?_

His discomfort has not gone unnoticed. "You seem distracted.” Zigart tugs at the chain, and Newt finally makes a sound – a surprised one, as his neck is abruptly jerked toward the other man. “Do you like it?" Graves' teeth grind together but he remains silent. _It,_ as if Newt was just another ring around one of those swollen fingers.

The chains rattle as Newt is pulled again. He follows without protest, maneuvered this time into a splayed position with his head pressed against Zigart's lap, legs curled on the sofa. Graves finding himself _wanting_ , not exactly sure what. But Zigart's head on a spike doesn't sound so bad.

Perhaps having sensed the growing tension in the room, now Newt is giving him The Look. Telling him to calm the fuck down.

_Merlin have mercy._

"Unfortunately, he isn't for sale, not even to me. Recent hire, apparently. Still has that idealism in him, you know I'd much like to replace that with something else.” There are three gold rings on Zigart's fingers, and five fingers too many currently carressing Newt's bottom, stroking against the cloth of his gaudy belt. “Maybe I just haven't offered a high enough price for you.” He chuckles, and Graves doesn't miss the way Newt's body becomes taut, a sharp exhale leaving him.

Tonight he has just found out that when the magizoologist blushes, it travels all the way down to his chest. That would be a thrilling detail to note if they weren't currently in the middle of a stand-off. Graves needs to strike _now_.

"Not the sort of magical creature you're normally interested in, I hear.”

The smirk instantly slides off Zigart's face and mercifully, his hands have finally left Newt alone to put out his cigar. "What have you heard?"

"Bradford squeaked on you, Zigart,” he declares. “Like the rat he is. While no one gives a damn about the taxes and tariffs you've evaded for decades, your next move could determine whether how long you'll be spending behind bars.”

"It's not a crime to ship goods. We're a shipping company, after all." There's a sheen of sweat visible on Zigart's forehead, but his jaw is clenched in a way that promises violence if prodded further. Graves tries frantically to think of a way to get Newt away from this man, before the situation implodes.

"It will be if the press stumbles onto your stash of animal byproducts, harvested from illegally-owned, endangered beasts at that. New York is full of bleeding hearts and once the media gets wind of it, not even your lawyers will be able to protect you."

Even Newt tenses at his verbal assault, though he remains draped over Zigart, head resting on his thigh. Limp and silent as any mannequin. While Zigart steams over his words, Graves calculates the odds of getting out of this situation alive, with Newt intact. He could haul the magizoologist away physically but that leaves him little time to stun Zigart and deal with the two cronies watching them. That's without factoring in the army of bodyguards outside. And no doubt Zigart has paid his way past the 'no wand' rule, and despite Graves' prowess with wandless magic, he cannot possibly multi-task by getting Newt out of the way and subduing Zigart at the same time.

Zigart must be disarmed, without harming Newt, who is practically his human shield due to their positioning.

"You're probably the bastard who's been breaking my ships, then.”

"Not a single auror has stepped onto your docks, that I can assure you. The only auror handling your case is I, and as you know, I'm an open-minded man willing to listen.” He grins, and the attempt to sift the tone of their conversation to a more pleasant one works, because Zigart abandons his murderous look. Instead he huffs and conjures a quill and parchment.

The objects hover over Newt, who looks up at them curiously. After scribbling on the sheet Zigart grabs it out of the air and brandishes it at Graves.

“Well? Take it,” he snaps when Graves doesn't move.

"You think I'd fall for jinxed parchment?"

"Not jinxed.” Graves remains still. Zigar rolls his eyes and hauls Newt up by the chain. “Fine. Boy, give it to him with your teeth. If you die in the attempt then he'll know I've jinxed it. Yes?" 

Newt hesitates, and then obediently opens his mouth so that Zigart can slip the edge of the parchment in. With a stretch of his long, freckled limbs Newt advances toward him, crawling onto the coffee table. His head remains bowed as he hunches on all fours. Graves plucks the sheet from his mouth with a shaking hand.

“Thank you,” he says, receiving an imperceptible nod in return.

There's a figure written on the parchment. He has never seen so many zeroes in his life.

Newt lifts his head, curious about the contents, but Graves locks eyes with him and with a flick of the wrist, the paper goes up in flames.

"I don't normally share, you know,” Zigart snaps. “But I'm a man of many resources and anything you ask, I'll give.” Hunching forward, he picks up his champagne glass and tilts it over Newt. 

Newt gasps as the contents spill over him, soaking the lower half of his body. Amber fluid drips down his thighs, his garments completely soaked. His joints are shaking, the glass table shuddering walong ith him, but he determinedly looks forward. An oily smirk remains plastered on Zigart's face. Anger spikes up within Graves as he imagines wrecking that face, ruining this man who's taken far too much delight in humiliating Newt. “There, I even got him nice and wet for you. You can have first pickings of this one, as long as I get a turn at some point. Perhaps we can work out a deal, hmm?”

He's already wondering what part of Zigart to maim first. Maybe he can tighten the rings until his fingers are squeezed off, or transfigure the chain into spikes to crucify him against the sofa. Or he could just stun him and do the rest of the work with his fists, until Zigart is a bloody, unrecognizable mess. 

With raised eyebrows, he scoffs. "I'm afraid you mistake pity for interest.” He ignores the flash of hurt on Newt's face, already getting a curse ready in his mind, but Zigart pulls the chain back. Newt lets out a strangled noise as he's thrown back into Zigart's lap, head pillowed on the man's shoulder. The suddenly rough treatment is alarming, as is the purpling of Zigart's face. He's nervous, backed into a corner but still desperate to bargain.

"What else is there to do other than retire, Mr. Graves?” Zigart growls. “Especially after your ordeal. I've practically handed you a pension since everyone knows they've revoked yours. The only reason I even agreed to see you was because you're not a threat to me, or to anyone for that matter. You're a laughingstock and yet you're still pretending you have power here.”

"Sir,” Newt pipes up, catching both of their attentions. His hand reaches up to stroke Zigart's face. “Do be nice to the poor man. He's doing his best,” he coos and Graves falters because Newt has always been unpredictable and until now he can't, for the life of him, understand what Newt's play is supposed to be.

"Listen to that. He's got a soft spot for you.” There's a chortle – an ugly-sounding one, and Zigart's wandering hands are all over Newt again, passing over his belly and Graves grits his teeth. Why is Newt inviting this man to touch him, and there's that intrusion of jealousy once again. _Now's not the time, Graves, goddammit._

“Give me a kiss and you won't hear another word about him from my lips."

Newt pauses and then says, “Alright.”

Graves – even though his mind is screaming at him not to – can't help but watch.

What begins as a gentle glide of lips quickly turns torrid as the other male grabs fistfuls of Newt's hair and keeps their faces mashed together. But Newt shows no sign of resistance, instead clambering to his knees and straddling Zigart's lap. That way at least Graves doesn't have to see Zigart violate his mouth, but the shifting back of Newt's head is still difficult to watch, his thighs splayed around bulging legs. His back is still soaked, the undergarments wetting Zigart's trousers but neither seem to care. Though the grip on Newt's chain is still firm, keeping him in place.

And then, all the rage boiling inside Graves melts into admiration, when he sees Newt's hand slide into the pocket of Zigart's trousers, and very slowly pull out a wand.

Zigart groans into Newt's mouth. His wand is short, dark and stubby, currently being held in Newt's long fingers as the redhead holds it behind his back.

Pushing himself to his feet, Graves reaches for it, plucking it from Newt. The guards at the doorway have finally noticed something off, and are advancing toward him. A simple swish and flick has them toppling to the ground, unconscious.

Waving his free hand, Graves snaps the chain from Newt's collar and it breaks off with a pinging noise. Newt instantly breaks off the kiss and rolls off the larger man.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” Graves murmurs. Thick ropes wind their way around Zigart, whose eyes bug out in surprise.

“What in the hell--”

"Tell me Mr. Zigart.” Graves points the wand at a meaty leg and Zigart howls. Although his clothes hide the evidence, a large bruise is already blossoming right underneath the cloth. “How does it feel to now be at the mercy of a laughingstock?” 

“You can't prove anything,” he gasps, struggling against the ropes. Newt has retreated to Graves' side, and out of the corner of his eye the redhead is scrubbing at his mouth, disgusted. “We've got the entire load leaving the harbor tonight. It's too late! You don't scare me, Graves!”

He screams again as Graves casts _Engorgio_ on his fingers. It's simple, but effective, and most of all very, very satisfying to watch the digits inflate and strain against the pressure of his rings. Those fingers were all over Newt, and he'd be happy to see them fall off. “If I'm so non-threatening, why do you have twenty bodyguards about to rush into this room?”

"Grindelwald should have finished you off,” the bound man taunts, a distorted smile on his already too-wide face.

“What does this have to do with him?” Graves demands. The ropes tighten around Zigart's neck.

"For – the – greater – good--” he squeezes out, and Graves is just about to split his goddamn filthy lips when Newt's hand clamps around his wand wrist.

He turns, startled, and sees Newt, grim and determined. “They're here!”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the door bursts open and sparks fly toward them. Graves spells the couch longer and thicker until a thick wall of red is blocking them from wandfire.

"Stay down,” he orders. “I'll handle this."

Of all the times for Newt to be ornery, he for some reason decides to pick now, right when a dozen dark wizards are closing in on them. "This would've been avoided if--"

"Finish that sentence, I dare you. Duck!" Their couch-shield is blown to smithereens and he and Newt end up on the floor and – oh, this position seems oddly familiar – Newt is under him, not quite recognizing the severity of their predicament.

"I can help!" He yells, while Graves transfigures the coffee table into a plexiglass dome that wraps around them. One of the guards is pelting them with a blast of fire, so it won't hold long. More are rushing into the room, trying to get past his meager defense.

"Do you have your wand?" He yells over the noisy spellcasting.

Red is spreading down Newt's chest again as he fidgets under Graves' stare. “Well, of course not, as you can see, I'm missing quite a lot at the moment--"

His groan of frustration is cut short when Newt lifts a red, square-shaped sheet to his face.

"But I have this!"

"A piece of paper?"

The glass is cracking around them and he still hasn't figured out a way to get them out of here and Newt is _not helping._

The magizoologist flashes him a grin. "A howler. With a pre-recorded mandrake cry. How good are you at Shield Charms?" Seeing the offended look on Graves' face, he backtracks. "Right, silly question. I'll throw this and we'll make our escape. Cast it now!”

Despite his misgivings, Graves clambers off Newt and throws up a Shield Charm. Newt jumps to his feet and over the chaos Graves still hears the noisy clink of his belt. He flicks the howler through the shield charm and they watch as it tears and folds into a face-shaped figure. The copious amounts of wrinkles and folds help it resemble an actual mandrake, and the face contorts, revealing a gaping mouth.

Graves instinctively presses hands over his ears, Newt doing the same as a piercing cry fills the room. The shield charm dulls the sound somewhat but it's still enough to leave Graves' ears ringing as he watches the men around them dropping like flies, wine glasses bursting around them. 

A sudden rumble has both of them wobbling. Then a large crack splits the floor and worms its way up the wall. It topples from the sheer force of the sound, and when the ceiling starts to follow suit Graves grabs Newt by the wrist. There's a newly-created hole exposing them to the street outside. Meaning the anti-apparition wards are down, and in a flash they're outside.

From across the street, The Horny Serpent certainly looks better with half the building collapsed in. At least Graves thinks so.

Newt is silent, watching patrons muttering as they're ushered out. Aurors are already swarming the place, and the discordant flashes of light signal that the press are gathering, too.

Graves has never been good with awkward silences. He has also never been good at admitting that he was wrong.

Underestimating Newt is the stupidest thing anyone could do, and yet somehow he's made that mistake at least thrice by now.

He won't anymore. So Newt won't have to do stupid things like surrender his body to criminals or run around in skimpy outfits.

Okay, the latter one, he can still do (but under different circumstances).

Putting aside his pride, Graves turns to face the other male head-on.

“Thank you,” he says softly. And then clears his throat. “You were bri-- Good. _Great_. You did great in there, especially considering you were wandless the entire time.”

He doesn't miss the way those bright green eyes instantly light up, the upward quirk of his mouth like he's trying and failing to hide a smile. Newt's curls are being tousled by the wind and the moonlight has turned his skin ivory, and O'Brien would laugh himself silly if he could hear Graves' sappy thoughts now.

“T-Thank you,” Newt returns. “So were you.” His head is bowed slightly, it's as if he's talking to Graves' tie. He's shivering, which isn't a surprise. It's fucking freezing out here. 

It's not quite the apology Newt rightfully deserves, so Graves makes up for it by slipping off his coat and then draping it around Newt's bare shoulders. His flushed chest is now hidden from view. Looking shocked for a moment, Newt blinks before casting Graves a toothy smile. He pulls the lapels tighter around himself. 

“You'll get home alright?” He asks.

“Yes,” comes Newt's faint reply. And he nods, and for some reason, something suddenly possesses him to reach forward and ruffle the red-gold curls. Newt's little tweaks of his own appearance are certainly attractive in their own right, but he misses the brown mop.

Realizing what he just did is akin to something a father would do to his child, Graves draws his hand back, mortified. He disapparates, and it takes a lot of effort not to scream into his pillow when he gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really happy with how this chapter unfolded, it took me achingly long to write and I meant to finish much sooner. I hope you still enjoy it anyway. Also, rumsama and aa_darwin, I don't mind you translating my fic. Go ahead. :)


	5. For A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory "fake dating" chapter!

When he arrives at Picquery's office and the first thing she does is slap a photograph down on the desk, Graves tries to recall if she's ever started a meeting like this before. He comes up blank.

Peering down at the photograph, he sees himself, standing on the sidewalk across what's left of the Horny Serpent. The man in the photograph is speaking to another, a scantily-clad figure whose exposed chest is whiter than anything else in the dark picture. With a bemused stare, he realizes the scene from that night, him removing the coat and wrapping it around Newt.

It looks far more intimate there than the actual awkward scene that took place.

He looks up – Picquery's eyebrows are practically reaching her turban – and says “What of it?”

“'What of it?'” she repeats. “' _What of it?'_ Do you have any idea how much we had to pay the sap who threatened to bring these to the New York Ghost?”

The problem with having one of your former schoolmates as your boss: you can't tell them upfront that they have to remove the stick up their ass, especially during a meeting.

But Graves knows just how to say it anyway. In more formal terms.

“I'm guessing a lot, otherwise you wouldn't have called me here just to ream me out about it.”

If looks could kill, he'd be pulverized dust right now. But there's a reason Picquery keeps him around, and it's only partly because he's the only one who can withstand her mood swings without having to change his undies every hour. 

“Our reputation took a big hit after Grindelwald, Graves. Don't forget that. Now if word gets out that you apparently frequented The Horny Serpent and actually made a purchase--”

“But I didn't,” he cuts in. “Mercy Lewis, you're acting like they photographed me fucking one of those teenagers—”

“They might as well have. Even the guy who brought these in thought he was underage.”

Okay. Newt may be young-looking and hot, but he's not _that_ young-looking. He jams a hand, frustrated, through his hair. Swiping at it like how he'd like to swipe out the reporter's faulty eyes.

“He's thirty fucking years old!”

“Whatever actually happened,” Picquery interrupts, her voice rising. “Point is, the press has been wanting to pounce on you ever since the incident. I think it's best you and Scamander dry up for a while. Like say, a week.” And with a quirk of her lips, she finally unveils her real intentions all along: “Besides, isn't it _that_ time of the year?”

He realizes what month it is and groans.

_Picquery, you sneaky bitch._

–

Situated in Carolina, the Graves estate is one he dreads having to return to, lest his parents curse him for missing out on their annual reunion. If not that then pull strings to have him placed in a nearby state – after all, their last name is synonymous with 'auror' and has been before the term for elite wizard cop even existed.

He can't picture ever leaving New York, but his hatred for his family home far outweighs any adoration for the city and he'd much rather live as a no-maj than move back in.

So attend the reunion, it is.

It's too bad fifty related aurors gathered together in one setting makes for the dullest, most pompous, passive-aggressive affair imaginable. And it's bound to be far worse this year, especially after his post-Grindelwald 'downfall'.

The past years, he has always at least had O'Brien in tow, who has kept inviting himself even after the rest of his family stopped showing up (seeing as the O'Briens and Graves are distantly related). Graves isn't sure why O'Brien keeps coming, either. He's joked that it's to make sure that Graves won't be arrested for murder; but based on his antics at every party, he's always had an inkling that O'Brien deliberately pisses off as many people as he can, just to make Graves look marginally better in comparison.

And now, thanks to Picquery, he's got O'Brien _and_ Newt flanking him on either side.

Naturally, there's a catch to getting to bring his favorite magizoologist into the property: since his ancestors have always been possessive over the family fortune, the only ones who can step foot onto the property are those that are part of the bloodline, and anyone in a relationship with the former.

Newt is surprisingly amenable to the idea, simply nodding in understanding when Graves explains the whole situation (O'Brien sniggering in the background). The tips of his ears are red and he stares down at the floor and says “Oh, well, if we must,” in a faltering voice. He sounds more resigned than anything, and honestly, Graves can see why: compared to their past missions 'playing house' seems much more tame in comparison.

“We won't have to behave too differently,” he says, noticing the redhead's nervousness. “Just say to anyone who asks that we've been dating for around a year. After all, the magic surrounding the house is shoddy – all I have to do is declare you as my paramour in my head, and it will recognize you as such instead of catapulting you over to the next state.”

That is, of course, only partially true – the magic of the Graves manor ascertains that any member of the Graves family must have romantic feelings for the person in order for the guest to be allowed in.

But Newt can't know that, of course.

“Acts of intimacy are not necessary,” he adds, trying to reassure the younger male, but this only seems to make Newt's blush darken. Sidling up beside him Graves wraps an arm around Newt, resting his hand on the shoulder of the blue coat. “The most I'll do is this, and only if that's alright with you.”

“That's fine,” Newt says quietly. Contrary to his words his voice sounds strained, and his muscles feel tense under Graves' touch. It's baffling how much more closed off he's become since their meeting at the Horny Serpent and he can't fathom why. Was it the awkward hair-ruffle? Or was Graves being too forward by wrapping him in his coat?

Either way, the image of Newt in the strips of cloth and shiny belt is still seared into his mind.

“Jeez, get a room, you two,” O'Brien pipes up, flicking ashes in their general direction.

–

Crossing through the bronze gates is done without affair; no one is catapulted away, thankfully, and the most he gets from O'Brien is a smirk when Newt passes through unimpeded. Between them, Newt's eyes widen as he surveys the Victorian manor looming over them from a distance – made of light-colored brick and trawling with enchanted, moving vines.

If only it could spontaneously catch fire right about now.

Midway through the path Newt stops at the fountain and Graves allows himself a secretive smile, more appreciative than ever at the redhead's childlike wonder. He actually leans forward and presses his hands on the edge of the marble to get a better look at the statue, a sculpture of a Thestral spouting water from its outstretched wings.

Graves redirects his fond gaze over to O'Brien. They make eye contact, the other man waggling his eyebrows at him (clearly having caught his moment of weakness), so the grin immediately slides off his face and he huffs.

“Your family crest is a...”

“Thestral, yes.”

Newt looks at him over his shoulder, inquisitive. “Why?”

“A lot of people assume it's because graves equate to death,” he shrugs. “But there's actually a story about my great-great-great-great grandfather or some such, sometime in the 19th century. They say he came across a Thestral one day, and taught it to help find yellow rocks along the riverbank so he could build his family a house the color of the sun. One afternoon, it instead deposited a glittering rock in his hand. He started a mining company and made his fortune off the gold rush.”

There's a pause. Newt is watching with rapt attention and Graves enjoys the quiet for as long as he can, because Merlin knows a lot of sordid grumbling will commence the moment they enter the manor. The sound of running water trickling down the fountain somehow goes nicely with O'Brien puffing into a pipe (“I only save this for formal occasions,” he once explained, swinging the pipe in the air like it was a dangerous weapon. “And because it makes it easier to blow smoke in the faces of people I find annoying.”)

“But I thought your family is made up of mostly aurors,” Newt points out. Graves nods, hands sliding into his pockets and a sigh passing through his lips.

“They say old Conrad Graves developed a taste for doling out justice after having witnessed so much of the opposite during his life. But I think he was just tired of the mine getting robbed.”

“Ah.” And Newt is smiling back at him, but Graves has memorized his smile in such a way that he knows this one isn't quite genuine, so he asks.

“What's wrong? You look like you have something else to say.”

“Well...” The magizoologist sits down at the fountain edge, inhaling, and O'Brien is shooting him a glare that says ' _oh my fucking God this is going to be about animals again isn't it'_. Newt quickly proves him right because his tone has taken on that authoritative edge. “About the Thestral...” They both ignore the protesting sound O'Brien makes.

“It's just interesting because it's quite unusual for a Thestral to end up in the United States, since they live in herds, don't migrate and are based strictly in Europe.” Crossing one leg over the other he gets comfortable, and that means they're going to be here for a while listening to a lecture, and Graves for once doesn't mind because he'd take any option that will minimize time needed to be spent with the disapproving bunch waiting for him just down the road.

So he nods at Newt and listens, even as the younger male proceeds to tear apart their tale that's been passed down for generations.

And he sounds so sweet while doing it, too.

“Also, Thestrals happen to be colorblind. Interesting species, they are, and they literally only see in black and white which no other animal can do. So I'm at a loss on how one managed to discern differently-colored rocks, much less yellow from other light colors, or gold. And although they can be domesticated, ultimately they are scavenger carnivores who are constantly on a search for meat – I wonder why one would ever develop an interest in rocks.”

“Well, that's just what I was told,” Graves says, sheepish.

O'Brien appears at Newt's side with a pat on the back and a snicker. “Atta boy, Newt! Repeat everything you just said to everyone in there so that hopefully we won't have to hear the Great Origin Story of the Graves Family Fortune ever again! Thank Merlin!”

“I'm not saying it's false!” A flash of distress crosses Newt's face. “I just have questions, that's all.”

They set off toward the house after that. Graves' steps feel heavy and for once, he's slouching like he's headed for his execution. Newt remains a few paces ahead while O'Brien nudges Graves to whisper in his ear, out of earshot.

“I still brought 'em, you know,” he says. “Code Silver, in case you ever...”

“Don't tempt me.” The smile he returns is decidedly grim.

Code Silver was a back-up ploy if ever Graves wanted out from his family permanently. It consists of a ring box and two matching silver wedding bands, and stemmed from an in-joke between the two of them about how Graves could finally be disowned if he up and declared he was going to marry O'Brien. He's never been pissed enough at his family enough to do it, but that could all very well change today.

Because now, he's not just Percival, “the Graves who's not moving high enough in the MACUSA ranks for our liking” (despite being the only one to get to work at the government's central base).

Today he's about to enter the house as “Percival, the one Graves who was stupid enough to be caught, imprisoned and impersonated by Grindelwald”, and he can only imagine the biting comments awaiting him. If he thought he was the family disgrace _before_.... Well...

He holds his breath as he pushes open the massive oak doors.

_Let's see what's in store for us, shall we?_

–

Immediately there to greet them is one of the most menacing members of the Graves clan: his mother.

Dressed in a black pantsuit, pointy frames decorating her face and helping hold back silvery hair, Winnifred Graves is undoubtedly the type of person to stand in front of the door waiting to admonish their son for coming home late, which she has just done now. Her red lips are pursed and her hands encase each other against her lap.

“You didn't used to be this tardy, Percival,” she greets, eyeing her son and no one else.

“Mother,” he nods.

“Missed me, Mrs. Graves?” O'Brien says with a toothy smile. But the matriarch of the house doesn't even look his way, focused only on Percival as Newt stares at the pair of them in bewilderment.

He coughs, ignoring her jibe. “I'd like to introduce you to my...” He hesitates. “...Newt.” He hopes she didn't notice his grimace, or Newt's flinch as he puts his hand on the slim shoulder like they practiced. They're barely two seconds into this and he's already fumbling, crowded by the sheer condescension lingering in the air.

“Hullo!” Newt offers out his hand. Winnifred stares at it, but doesn't move. Her lips are drawn tighter.

“You're not an auror.”

There's a noticeable slump in Newt's stance, the redhead wilting and withdrawing his empty hand. Graves sighs and rubs circles on his collarbone, a meager attempt at comfort.

“He isn't, but he'd make a damn good one.”

“Hm,” she says. 

“I'll show him my childhood bedroom.” Desperate to escape her judging look he starts tugging Newt toward the staircase, while sending silent messages to O'Brien with his eyes.

“You will not have sex in there, Percival.” Her tone remains even, like she's discussing the weather.

“Don't be crass,” he shoots back, hauling a reddening, sputtering Newt up the staircase.

“And I can escort you back outside, Mrs. Graves! Tell me, are there any new Gravelings I should be introduced to?” The other auror offers up his arm to the woman while continuing his chatter, and as Graves continues to try and put as much space in between them as possible, he faintly hears her respond “Don't touch me.”

The moment they enter Graves' bedroom he pushes the door shut and starts pacing, fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose.

“I would like to apologize on the behalf of my entire family's behavior. That was just the tip of the iceberg, I''m warning you now.”

“Your mum hates me already. That was fast.” Newt seems strangely affected by this, which is odd considering he's always spouting about not caring what others think.

“They hate _me_ and everyone even remotely connected to me, like O'Brien or you. They're assholes Newt, partly because they're aurors, but moreso because they're American.”

It gets a chuckle out of the other wizard, at least. But sweet, easily distracted Newt is now looking around, at the bare walls, the single king-sized bed propped up against the wall. There are no photographs, no personal belongings to suggest that anyone resides in it. The room doesn't look lived in, but even when Graves was a child it was always that way.

The magizoologist looks at him, puzzled. The very picture of Newt exploring his childhood in this way is more disorienting than he expected.

“This is where you grew up?”

“More or less.”

“Well, it's... Certainly a bedroom.”

He snorts, closes the distance between them. The other male has a sharp intake of breath, peering at him under long eyelashes and bright eyes.

His mind is a conflicting mess. He's not sure when he stopped thinking of Newt's nervous tics as irritating as hell and started finding them endearing. Moreover, when did he stop thinking about getting Newt on his back, and instead started fantasizing about kissing those eye-catching lips, like a schoolgirl with a crush? 

And it's not like he would feel too guilty about kissing Newt here, in his family home, just one more giant 'fuck you' to his family and everything that it represents. But Newt has been distant since Sexy Incident Number Four (damn you, O'Brien, for making that a thing, honestly), so instead he leans in and says:

“Maybe this was a stupid idea. My relatives are awful and things are bound to get worse the moment we leave this room. We could just go, and I can drop you off at Tennessee where you can frolic with some beasts or...”

But Newt is shaking his head, and a hand is pressed to his chest. The words die instantly and Graves is suddenly very aware that his bed is only a few meters away, and Newt's mouth much, much closer still.

“I'm quite used to people talking down to me, so don't think too much of it. And haven't I shown you how well I can handle myself? This is nothing.”

Unable to stop the grin from forming, he backs down. Stubborn to a fault, Newt truly is.

And oh, how he fucking loves it.

“Alright then.”

–

When they make their entrance in the back garden, things go about as well as expected, which is to say, not very well at all.

O'Brien has already done his job of riling up as many people as he can, smoking as aggressively as possible and having done his yearly tradition of spilling soup against Aunt Mildred's dress (she'd once called Graves a 'disgrace' when he'd announced he was going to campaign for Picquery rather than run for president himself).

Salvatore Graves remains seated next to his wife, Winnifred. Graves has always been the spitting image of his father, who is an even more humorless version of him especially in his older years. The man does nothing, simply gives an imperceptible nod when he introduces Newt.

“You look so much like him,” marvels the redhead, whispering into his ear as they distance themselves from Graves' parents before any disparaging comments regarding Newt's profession can be made.

“So I've been told,” he says bitterly.

They're about to move on to meet the second and third cousins when the stench of whiskey hits his nose and beside him, Newt coughs. In less than a moment a familiar face is blocking their path.

“You're not fooling anyone. I can see right through both of you.” The man is balding, wisps of hair combed to the side in a fruitless attempt to hide the evidence. He's hid his eyes behind a pair of dark glasses, and his nose and mouth under a scraggly beard that reaches his chest.

Unlike all the other members of his family, who are dressed to the nines in smart attire, this one appears to have missed the memo: his suit is buttoned in the wrong places and he wobbles in place, a bottle in his hand to complete the cliché of bumbling alcoholic.

Both of them have gone completely still as he surveys them, tilting his head and focusing on Newt. Despite his teetering his hands are quick, fisted in the blue coat and hauling Newt down toward him.

“What brothel did he snatch you out of, hmm? I might ask for a recommendation because oh boy, did he at least pick a real dime piece.” The smirk he flashes Newt is filthy, teeth uneven and browning.

Graves wastes no moment in shoving him back.

“Newton and I have been together for a year.”

“He reminds me of someone,” says the despicable man, unperturbed by the matching glares he's receiving.

“Someone with _manners,_ perhaps. I thought you'd promised to go sober, Uncle.”

“Made a lot of fuckin' promises, Percival. I also promised your daddy I'd only allow my name to be passed down to an honorable son of his, but that didn't work out, did it?” He takes a swig, stumbles and cackles.

Newt leans in, whispering. “Mr. Graves, who is this man?”

“Oh. Oh-ho!” Apparently having overheard them, their harasser practically dances with glee. “Dating for a year but you still have him calling you 'Mr. Graves'? Kinky bastard, aren't you?”

“Newt.” He flexes his hand at his side, willing away the magic crackling at his fingertips. Killing his uncle would certainly be another way to get disowned, and it would be like eliminating two birds with one stone... “It is with great regret that I introduce you to my Uncle Billy.”

Green eyes widen and Newt shrinks back, one step away from hiding behind Graves. “ _He's_ the man you were named after?”

But Uncle Billy is tired of being ignored. He goes for Newt again, grabbing at his face with hands that looked deceptively frail. “Maybe get a refund from this one's john, eh? Your hired broad can barely even talk! Or look me in the eye, for that matter. What's wrong, babe, did Percy break you already?”

Graves is ready to fire a curse but Newt smoothly pushes Uncle Billy's hands away with his own. There's an unpleasant glint in Newt's eyes even as he frowns at the man, backing up to put distance between them. “I'm perfectly fine, thank you for your concern,” he says, a rare icy tone in his voice. Graves steers him away before it turns into a crime scene.

“Charming fellow, isn't he,” Newt says, scrubbing at his jaw from where the bastard touched him.

“He wasn't always that way. But he's not usually this rowdy, either.”

And because of his downright unfortunate luck, they've barely recovered from one unruly Graves before being accosted by three others. His older sisters have evidently been waiting to ambush him, Newt shoved to the side as three women crowd into his space.

“Percy, darling!” Verna throws her frail arms around him, a rare affection-showing specimen in their family.

Graves reluctantly hugs back, ignoring Newt's whispered “Percy?”. About to ask his eldest sister how retirement's been treating her, instead he's quickly waylaid by Mamie and Erma, who are already chattering about their respective families' latest exploits.

“I heard Fontaine got promoted, Percy. There's talk of him getting the Auror of the Year Award, isn't there? I do hope things are fine, brother, all you have to do is correct those missteps though perhaps it's a glass ceiling for you at this point...”

“--Department head is going on about placing a transfer for Edmund to your branch, actually, can you imagine? _Me_ having to move to that terrible city? I think not. Even you wouldn't be worth it, Percy, no offense--”

But Verna refuses to be beat, and she raises her voice to drown out her sisters'. “Ada got accepted into all houses as expected! I was going to owl you but I just didn't want to make you feel bad, Percy, after all, you're still the only one in the family who was only selected by three and not four... She picked Wampus of course...”

“You best start cosying up to Fontaine now, brother, don't sour him on the rest of us just because you're envious...”

“Enough about Fontaine!” he snaps despite himself, and a well of disappointment swirls at the pit of his belly as three pairs of eyes stare at him in disbelief. They've fallen silent. “And I'm perfectly fine career-wise so stop fussing. Really.” With the tone used, it comes out sounding harsher than he intended, but it's enough to get the three to back off. At least temporarily.

Because when he introduces Newt, their backhanded compliments are out in full force.

“A non-auror in the family, Mother and Father must be so upset, but you musn't blame them, we're just used to having partners on level with us intellectually, emotionally, financially--”

“Oh, Percy better be feeding you, you look so thin! No wonder Percy looks so pudgy these days, he's probably been finishing whatever you've left on your plate...”

“We were starting to wonder, you know, if Percy suffers from sexual dysfunction, because he doesn't date and has never brought anyone over. At least you're a testament to his working penis--”

And as Newt looks around in alarm, his eyes getting bigger and bigger, Graves can only shrug in apology and shake his head. A few tables away, O'Brien is causing an even bigger ruckus: he's gotten into a shouting match with one of Graves' nieces about quidditch and the girl slaps him and stomps off.

“Four slaps in one year! New record!” O'Brien says gleefully, clutching his reddening cheek with one hand.

At least they're faring slightly better than O'Brien, but O'Brien is actually _trying_ to do his worst so it doesn't really help matters.

–

At his sisters' urging, Graves is imprisoned at his parents' table, seated next to Newt and surrounded by Verna, Mamie and Erna and their respective husbands. Newt could not be more different from the rest of them, blue coat in a sea of black and his tousled curls shining orange under the sunlight. The single burst of color in a monochrome setting and unerring proof that Newt belongs far, far away from this dump.

Graves keeps a protective arm draped around his seat just in case, silently defiant under the imperious gaze of his parents.

Lunch goes by smoothly, with Newt content to be ignored. The family discusses cases and ask Graves about his own. He explains the nature of his current assignment, which, of course, doesn't impress anyone one bit (“That's beginner's work,” Verna's husband scoffs) and he tries in vain to quash the rumor that Fontaine is about to be given his position, while any day now he is going to be demoted to running Wand Permits. 

The jabs at his career, he has gotten all his life and therefore those are easily ignored. What concerns him more is that Newt keeps casting him worried glances after every one of their thinly-veiled insults. He's looking at Graves like he might break.

He smiles at Newt – it's strained but it'll have to do – trying to tell Newt that he's fine, _really_.

The only thing that might break is the table if they dare bring up Fontaine's name one more time.

After dessert, everything goes straight to hell.

The house-elf is making her rounds and distributing coffee – black, like the souls of nine out of ten people in their table – when she gets to Newt, who politely turns down the cup.

“Oh, no thank you. Could I have some tea, instead?” He's smiling politely at her but she freezes.

And starts rocking back and forth.

Everyone turns to watch.

“ _Tea_?” She squeaks. “ _Tea_?! I afraid I not knowing what is tea? Why do you hate Leela's coffee? It is grown on this very plantation, and Leela harvests it with her bare hands!” The house-elf quickly dissolves into tears, Newt trying in vain to stop her from breaking down further but not quite succeeding.

“Oh, it's not you, I just don't drink coffee – please, don't cry, little one!” He's looking around for help and Graves is at a loss, because there's nothing but revulsion on the faces of the women and men at the table, everyone looking like Newt just took a piss on the graves of their ancestors.

Naturally this distresses Newt even _more_ , and he stands up, knocking over his chair and backing away from the sobbing house-elf.

“I am _so_ sorry, I will – just – use the restroom, pardon me...” He retreats. Graves watches him go. _Run, Newt, save yourself,_ and makes sure he's completely gone before rounding on his family.

“Alright. What the hell do you have against Newt?”

The table explodes into a flurry of blathering.

“He's English,” Verna says, point-blank. “His name's funny,” her husband adds, and she continues: “I hate his accent. They always sound like they're gargling water.”

“He's a redhead,” Erma says in a panicked tone after looking around, as if Newt himself would pop out and attack her if she were overheard. “Never trust a ginger. It's one of the family mottos, Percy, haven't you forgotten?”

“Not from Ilvermorny. He might be a spy. Or did he even go to a wizarding school? What if he's a squib?” Mamie throws in, sounding more and more shrill with each new contemplation.

Verna, still determined not to be outdone, goes on. “Damn Brits think they can come over here and take back everything, including our Graves men!”

“He's not an auror.” Based on the vindictiveness of her statement, Winnifred has been stewing over that one for hours.

“They don't even like coffee! Tea tastes like wood! WOOD!” (Again, Verna).

Mamie's husband, who has never been particularly bright and got by purely through family connections, finally speaks up. “She's too skinny. Our women need wide birthing hips if they expect to bring into this world strong Graves men.”

“Orwell, Newt is _male._ ” Graves says slowly, the only rebuttal he can provide before another verbal onslaught of insults against his pretend-partner.

“What does 'magizoologist' even mean? Are you sure he's not just out to get the family fortune?”

“He's too polite. No spine at all.”

“I don't like his freckles.”

“He looks too young for you, dear.”

“He dresses in such garish colors.”

“His lips make me think ungodly thoughts.”

“Enough!” It's his second outburst of the day and he's one more away from a full-blown aneurysm. What a way to go: defending the honor of a fake boyfriend. “My god, you all sound like those awful pureblood families.”

Everyone stops talking, and for just one fleeting moment Graves dares to think it's because he finally got through to their thick skulls. But when he looks around, there's a flash of blue, Newt sitting down as the rest return to sipping coffee.

Newt should not be the one apologizing, but he is, smiling ruefully around the table. “So sorry, it was difficult to find the restroom, the house is huge.”

And Graves is shaking. Because how dare they, these miserable snakes, _how dare they_ insult Newt but can't even look him in the eye right afterward. So much for being respectable upholders of justice. He wants to _leave_ , hide Newt away from the miscreants who could never appreciate how wonderful he is just because he's too good to join the force.

They sip their coffee in silence. Graves leaves his untouched, while Newt stares down at his hands. O'Brien is causing a much louder commotion, one they're all pointedly ignoring but everyone can hear. Apparently Aunt Lula is accusing him of having stolen her earrings. “Lady,” he shouts back. “I wouldn't take those ugly rocks of yours even if you paid me!”

Furthering the chaos, Uncle Billy makes another appearance. His fixation with Newt is unsettling and there he is, suddenly behind the seated male and bending over to whisper in his ear with ketotic breath:

“Run far away while you still can! Being Percival's squeeze ain't worth it, believe me!”

Newt is even more fed up with this than he is, turning to the man and replying without pause.

“I am Percival's whether you like it or not!”

There's a thrill shooting up his spine at Newt's forwardness, and Graves concentrates his magic into his hand. “Uncle Billy, I would appreciate it if you _stopped harassing my partner_ ,” he joins in, and, raising his palm, spells the man away, to a table far in the back.

His moment of triumph is short-lived, though, for his father has finally decided to say more than two words to him.

“He just has your best interests in heart.” Salvatore is looking at him with utter disdain. Graves is all too familiar with it, but it doesn't make him feel any less hateful; coming here was truly a stupid idea, Picquery be damned.

“He is a disgrace to his family after what he's become,” Graves argues. The air is thrumming with tension, his sisters looking back and forth with the interest of someone watching a quidditch match.

“You should not be talking about others being a disgrace, Percival.”

He inhales. There's a sting in his chest that he buries with practiced ease. His father isn't done, his upper lip curling and preparing for an even worse blow.

“We are concerned. You disappear. All we learn of you, we learn from the news. Then you come back with _this_.” Newt cringes under his gaze and Graves grips his chair harder. _You utter bastard, don't bring Newt into this_. But it's their job to push their buttons, and Salvatore knows exactly what his are.

“We are concerned,” he repeats. “Because you bring us this and expect us to accept it: no brains, money, culture or dueling capabilities whatsoever...”

The punchable face of Salvatore fades away and all he sees is red.

“That's it,” Graves bursts out, getting on his feet. “I've had it with you. All of you. Consider this the last time I'm going to be spending time in the company of you deplorable bunch.” He scans the faces of those he's known since before he knew how to walk, but feels no love for any of them. Most are wide-eyed with shock, a few (like his parents) still stoic and skeptical. They're all waiting to see how far he'll go, and he bares his teeth.

He refuses to hold back. Not anymore.

“Gellert Grindelwald was here last year in my place. You call yourselves family, yet none of you – not _one_ of you, my own flesh and blood, suspected a goddamn thing. He ate and drank with you and left this entire family of aurors looking like utter fools. But you know who noticed that he wasn't me, despite not even having met me?”

He gestures to Newt, who shrinks in his seat, looking very much like he doesn't want to be apart of Graves' rant.

“This man here. He recognized Grindelwald for what he was, and took him down single-handedly when twenty of our so-called _'brilliant'_ aurors – no offense meant, O'Brien –“

“None taken,” O'Brien hollers from the back.

“--Could not. If you don't believe me, then I can have Picquery owl over the official case report. Which states, by the way, that Fontaine was the first man to go down, felled by nothing more than a _Petrificus Totalus_.”

The entire garden remains deathly quiet.

“There is no way any of you could despise me more than you all already do,” he continues, in a tone dripping with venom. “But let me try and give you one more reason: consider this the day I officially extricate myself from this family to establish my own clan with a wizard more powerful and honorable than any of you could ever hope to be! O'Brien, Code Silver!”

He holds out his hand, and without missing a beat, O'Brien makes an impressive toss toward him. “About time, Boss!” O'Brien calls out cheerfully. The velvet box flies through the air and Graves summons it to his palm the rest of the way.

Amidst the rumbling of voices around him Graves drops to his knees, holding the box. “Newton Artemis Scamander...”

“Newton Artemis _Fido_ Scamander,” corrects the redhead without a second thought, before realizing his error and clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Will you do me the honor of starting a new family with me...”

“Um,” Newt says, his eyes widening at the sight of a box being shoved in his face. But Graves soldiers on, ignoring the scandalized noises of his parents and the shrieks of his sisters.

“...By accepting my proposal?”

“UMM,” he makes a strange noise, muffled by his hand. Graves looks at him intently, trying to hint at the correct response with his eyebrows, and it's not working because Newt looks utterly petrified and murmurs are rippling through the awkward silence.

“...Well?” And if he's trying to not come across as pushy, he's not doing a very good job of it. “Will you?”

“Y-yes?” Newt says, blinking. He finally uncovers his face “Yes, I will, of course, M-- Percival.” Newt does something with his hand, places it on the velvet box. Graves allows himself a small grin, transfixed by the now increasingly common image of Newt turning the same shade as his hair.

Uncle Billy, of course, decides then and there that it's time to ruin the moment.

“Aren't you going to kiss him?” He shouts. “What kind of couple doesn't kiss right after getting engaged?”

Graves turns his head and glares, fighting the urge to wandlessly flip Uncle Billy over his chair. “It's fine, Newt is not one for public displays of affec--” He's cut short when Newt grabs his nape and presses lips against his.

It's quite honestly the most chaste kiss he's had in a long while. Even grade school kisses have felt more ardent than Newt lightly nudging lips with his own. But it lights something within him, alerting him more than ever that he wants this man more than he will ever say. That maybe he's half-serious about wanting to put a ring on his finger and call Newt his, because Newt is so utterly perfect that he can make the lightest of kisses seem other-worldly.

Distantly, he can hear O'Brien cheering and trying to lead a golf clap, which ends up marginally successful. People are slowly recovering from shock, his parents included (though they remain unusually silent).

Newt pulls back, panting, his lips so red you'd think they'd been tongueing for an hour. His gaze wanders to the crowd and he looks more embarrassed, if possible, at the notion of having just done something as lascivious as kissing in public.

“Well? Why aren't you putting on the rings?” Uncle Billy cuts in again, still not content. 

Graves snaps at him – “Give a moment, why don't you?” – and Newt's trembling hands help him open the box.

There's nothing inside.

“Percival.” His mother's lips are pursed, eyebrows knitted in concern. She continues, in a low voice. “Are you having money problems?” 

“ _No,_ dammit--” He can't keep the panic out of his voice, and continues examining the box desperately. “The rings, O'Brien, where are the fucking rings?!” From his corner O'Brien throws up his hands helplessly, looking just as baffled.

“My necklace is gone!” One of the children wails, grabbing her neck.

Newt gasps.

“Niffler!”

It's time, he supposes, for his Newt-induced headache of the day. “You brought him _here_?” 

“Shush, he was lonely,” Newt replies, and rips the scorpion pin from Graves' lapel before raising it in the air and whistling.

“Here, boy! Come out and get this shiny thing, you little bugger!”

Out from under one of the further tables, the creature leaps out, flying in the air with the hint of a belt buckle peaking out from the pouch. Newt catches him easily before he can take Graves' pin with outstretched claws. It chatters in protest, and Winnifred stands.

“A niffler? You brought a niffler here?” In all his decades of living, Graves has never seen his mother so emotional. But she's moving toward Newt, reaching out for the black furry ball twisting in his grip. Even Salvatore looks stunned by the niffler's presence, staring at it, paper-white.

There's a cooing noise.

Winnifred Graves is _cooing_ and cradling the niffler in her arms.

Graves nearly faints.

“Oh, you precious darling,” she says, tickling its belly. Out come the buckle, the missing necklace and rings. “Our family crest, returned to us. How magical!”

He's trying and failing to wrap his head around the situation. The entire clan, driven mad by a niffler. What in the world?

“Our family crest is a Thestral,” he protests. “You've told me the story a thousand times--”

“Percival, don't be daft,” his own _mother_ tells him, looking very much annoyed that he's intruding on her intimacy with the niffler. It's clutching at her ringed fingers, trying in vain to tug the jewels off. “Everyone knows that the creature in the story was a niffler, not a Thestral. Our Graves ancestors made their fortune because this little one brought them gold. I have never seen one in real life before this. Adorable!”

Even Newt is laughing now, overjoyed as he typically is whenever someone shows an inkling of liking creatures as much as he does. “That makes so much more sense!”

“A niffler returning here is the best omen we could ask for.” Salvatore is wiping something from the his cheek – those better not be tears, _goddammit_ and Graves sits down, defeated.

This was... Unexpected. 

He should have known.

Because the Graves family is, by nature, every bit as old-fashioned as it can be, meaning they're conservative and rigid to a fault.

And are therefore also extremely superstitious.

–

Newt has been having a long day. So when Billy Graves somehow manages to isolate him again from the crowd, he doesn't bother hiding his displeasure. With a loud sigh he makes sure there is exactly two feet of space between them.

“Percival deserves a better middle name,” he says, before the other wizard can speak. And it's cruel to say, but it's true, and Uncle Billy deserves it for being so terrible to Graves. (And implying, repeatedly, that Newt is nothing but a whore, and while he doesn't begrudge those who have taken up that profession, he wants it firmly established that he is a _magizoologist_.)

Uncle Billy stares at him, and, strangely enough, removes his glasses.

There's a scar where his other eye should be, and the remaining black orb actually looks regretful. His head is bowed and Newt feels bad all of a sudden for speaking so hastily.

“I apologize,” Uncle Billy says, his beard rustling. “You see, my wife – her hair was red as yours, same curls, too, and she was sweet. Like you, showed spunk when she needed to.” There's a twisted smile on his lips, partly a grimace as he stares almost past Newt, reminiscing for the briefest of moments.

“Not an auror, though. Couldn't duel to save her life. I had enemies. They took her. She died, I drank. You reminded me of when things were better and I acted out. But I don't think you'll share her fate, if you're the one who took down Gellert Grindelwald.” In his moment of sobriety he drops his empty bottle on the grass. The glasses are back on his face and he's back to being a lecherous man.

“Percival's a piece of shit, he won't even touch you like he fucking loves you, and he doesn't deserve you, but I figure with you he won't turn out so bad after all.”

“He will be fine with or without me,” Newt says defiantly. “That's why I love him.”

“Is he still bothering you, Darling?”

Graves is beside him, clearly having heard that last bit. Expecting a hand on his shoulder, instead it curls around his waist and Newt tries in vain to ignore the fluttering in his chest, like a crowd of Doxies have been released in there all at once.

“N-no, we are fine.”

Uncle Billy nods at them both.

“You look dumber, Percy. It's a good look on you. Keep at it.”

And then he leaves, Graves muttering “All these fucking backhanded compliments, I swear,” under his breath.  
–

“I wager they'll be disappointed when you tell them about the break-up,” Newt jokes, those kissable lips curved into a smile.

Break-up?

Ah.

He can't believe he forgot.

None of this is supposed to be real: the pet names, the hand curled possessively around Newt's waist. Nor the rings on their fingers.

And yet every fiber of his being wants it to be true. It's making his chest ache.

“Don't worry.” The eyes staring into his show something – perhaps the same neediness Graves has been feeling. They're questioning, waiting for him to say more.

He opens his mouth and _wants_ but something his mind jerks him back so what ends up tumbling out is perhaps the stupidest six words he will ever say in his life.

“I'll think of a good reason.”

Newt's smile is gone and he wants to die.

_Congratulations, Graves, you fucked up yet again.”_

Newt pulls away from his grip and like an idiot Graves just stands there and lets him, hand falling limply at his side, with a cheap meaningless ring around his finger. 

_–_

He can't believe Picquery called a private meeting just to ask one question. She's waiting for him, a sickeningly sweet smile etched on her face. 

Did you have a good time?” 

"No. But I got engaged.” 

It's satisfying, though, to watch her turn her head so fast that her turban nearly falls off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who's been supporting this story so far. I'm so sorry it's taking so long to update, but I've been busy and I had trouble with this chapter, too. This fic has kept going due to your lovely comments, and I've actually taken several recommendations and applied them here.
> 
> There are two chapters after this. This chapter didn't initially exist but someone wanted fake dating and I loved the idea. However, I feel quite bad about giving Graves never-ending blue balls so I'm afraid I won't be taking trope suggestions anymore as the rest of the fic has been outlined already.
> 
> Spoiler alert: they DO end up having sex. Just wait for it.


	6. Under A Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just him and Newt, locked in a room together for hours. (And that bastard Fontaine, but who cares about him?)

Percival Graves does _not_ carry a torch for Newt Scamander.

Percival Graves does _not_ fantasize about all the ways he wants to make Newt Scamander smile in the morning, and all the ways he wants to make Newt Scamander blush at night.

Percival Graves does _not_ reread his case files hoping for a mention of some obscure beast, just so he can have an excuse to call in his favorite consultant.

Percival Graves does _not_ \--

There is a temporary pause in his monologue of self-denial as he studies the latest memo. It's from the Department of Unlawful Curses and Jinxes (redundant name if you ask him, since curses and jinxes are unlawful by nature). His eyes glance over the words, catching a few choice phrases. “Zigart”, “freighter” and “stripped down” are the ones that stand out the most.

But at the bottom is a signature that makes him nearly crumple the sheet on the spot and toss it into the waste bin.

_John Fontaine_  
_Auror_  
(A poor one, mind you.)

His hands have actually started shaking.

Percival Graves does _very much_ hate Fontaine, after all, and he would freely admit that to anyone who asked.

He scoffs.

No wonder it took so long for them to get anything off the damn boat. Fontaine takes ages to get any assignment done, if at all. He's a lousy excuse for an auror, and the fact that people constantly call the two of them similar is, frankly, insulting.

“He's exactly like you,” O'Brien likes to joke. “A half-melted version of you, that is.” 

Fontaine is _nothing_ like him, because at least Graves can be charming and knows that brown belts don't go with black shoes, whereas Fontaine is a droopy-faced ignoramus who can't tell which end a wand's spells come out of. And he has the personality of a bag of flour.

But now, his most hated rival has come to him offering a gift that will make Newt very, very happy. But Fontaine will have to be there to help open it, because for all of Graves' talents he is unfortunately not as experienced in curse-breaking, which the object will require a lot of.

He stares at the paper, weighing his options.

Percival Graves does _not_ want to secretly win Newt over by helping figure out the latest clue to their case, nope.

Percival Graves _definitely_ hates to be anywhere near Fontaine, especially not for an extended period of time.

Though he's already standing up and hollering O'Brien's name (because he will not be the one to contact Newt personally, that would seem a touch desperate).

He just wants to see the magizoologist's smile again, that's all.

–

 

“John Fontaine. Newt.” He drawls out the name of the former and resists from rolling his eyes in accompaniment. But naturally, the man doesn't notice, busy folding up his sleeves to do the 'physically taxing' task of spelling a box open. “I presume you've already met?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Newt supplies, but is just as engrossed as Fontaine. Both of them are leaning over the table, studying the black cube but making sure they don't get too close. There's nothing particularly extraordinary about its appearance, though there's a sheen covering each panel hinting at an unearthly glow that has since subsided. Somehow the fact that there is no magic visibly swirling around it makes it seem that much more ominous, however.

“Where was it hidden?” 

“In the hull, below at least six layers of jinxed paneling. You can understand why it took so long to uncover it. Most of my team is still in the recovery wing.”

Newt nods. “Of course.”

The magizoologist is talking to his most despised enemy like they're decade-long partners, and Graves is feeling very much ignored.

He considers leaving the room, but no, that would be petty. And besides, if he doesn't urge Fontaine along, Newt could be down here for days watching a box be unlocked. They are using a spare interrogation room for the whole affair, and based on what he's heard, Newt and interrogation rooms don't exactly mix well.

“Whenever you're ready, Mr. Fontaine.” Luckily for him, Fontaine, who is fiddling with his cuffs for the nth time, happens to be immune to sarcasm. He circles the table several times, trying to intimidate the inanimate object, before pulling out his wand.

“Where do we begin?” Newt finds his spot at the corner of the table, the excitement evident in his voice. To him, the box is probably a present, containing some rare magical beast inside.

“ _I,_ ” Fontaine corrects, because he's a self-important bastard like that. “Will be conducting a series of spells on each side. Forty-eight counter-curses, one by one. Mine is a technique frequently used in arithmancy, a tried and tested method. Eventually, one of the spells will work and then we'll move on to the next curse and start all over again.”

So, basically, like a beginner auror, he's going to throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks. Figures that a man like that would make cursebreaking as boring as filling out a crossword puzzle.

Graves leans against the wall with his arms crossed, prepared to look as unimpressed as he can throughout the entire duration of the process, even if it takes several hours.

“Riveting.” Daring to throw in a yawn at the end, this time, even Newt catches on to the passive-aggressive nature of his comment. He turns toward Graves and does not look a tad bit happy.

“Mr. Graves, perhaps it's best if you and I remain quiet then, so Mr. Fontaine can concentrate.”

He's stunned into silence. Never has he heard such cruel words come out of such sweet lips. Lips that, mind you, he's tasted.

It stings. Newt is treating him like he's a nuisance. He sees _Graves_ as a bother to _Fontaine_ when this case would've been shut a long time ago had a better auror been in charge of curse-breaking.

Graves looks pointedly away, thinks _'fuck this'_ and waits for that agonizing hour to go by.

-

Fontaine waving his wand at each side of the box, muttering fifty enchantments in a row gets old very quickly.

Yet Newt continues to watch him as if he's watching Occamies be born, excitement glowing in his eyes and his face bright with interest.

Just more reasons to hate Fontaine, really, who's kept them here for approximately forty-eight minutes at this point, with nothing to show for it.

Four of the six sides of the box are done with, at least. The panels have collapsed outward but so far no actual contents have been exposed. Fontaine is just about finished with the top; he taps the surface and it levitates off, before settling on the table. So far they've unveiled

“One more. We're five out of six,” Fontaine says, having assumed they've forgotten how to count. “The box looks empty right now but each side so far has had a concealment charm placed on it so I assume the sixth will as well. Once we remove that, the object inside will unveil itself.”

Graves keeps his sigh to himself, making sure Newt is out of earshot. How the magizoologist has managed to remain on his feet, practically bouncing with anticipation throughout the whole hour, he doesn't know. Perhaps he should take a quick break and come back by the time Fontaine is done.

Twenty minutes later and Fontaine finally breaks the last enchantment, and an object materializes on the bottom side's surface.

“There you have it,” Drolls the auror. “Curse-free.” With magic, he lifts the object and settles it into Newt's waiting palms.

“This is--” Newt says, swallowing. He gazes down at the metal piece, blinking profusely. “Oh, my--”

Graves swears audibly.

It's a metal carving: a familiar triangle, with a circle at its center. And in that circle, a single vertical line.

“That was a lot of work for a hideous sculpture,” Fontaine remarks, scratching his head.

“That's the symbol Grindelwald used,” _You dolt._ “Zigart quoted him when we caught him, and now this.” Graves moves closer to Newt, peering at the artifact over his shoulder.

“There's something in the center line, look—” With shaky fingers Newt removes a vial embedded in the line. At first, Graves thinks it's empty. But with Newt holding it up against the light, they see a single coarse hair inside it.

“I know what this is,” Newt says, breathless. “I _know_ \--”

He never gets to finish his sentence, because the triangle in his hand glows and Graves barely has time to grab it before its spell hits them both.

But it doesn't feel like the familiar tendrils of magic weaving through his body. No, this is physical – something wet, spraying out from the artifact and onto them both. Someone is yelling, but his vision goes red and he stumbles back, scrabbling at his face.

He falls against the wall, opens his eyes again and sees Fontaine bolting for the door.

“Fontaine!” He roars, following after him. In his pursuit he drops the triangle to the floor and it bounces with a clang. But Fontaine is already through the doorway, sealing the door shut behind him. Graves hears him muttering a spell and he snarls and pounds on the metal.

“You fucking coward--!”

Fontaine's face pops up in the viewing window, dripping with sweat and full of panic. “Stay calm!” He shouts, hysterical. “I'll get help, just stay where you are!” With a loud crack he's gone, disapparating like the piece of shit he is. Graves makes a frustrated noise and bangs his fist on the door one more time.

Fontaine has possibly left them to die.

Speaking of Newt...

“M-Mr. Graves, I d-don't feel well...”

Swiveling around, he faces the redhead and, heartbeat quickening, wonders for a moment if Newt is hurt. He's holding himself like he is, hunched over and panting, a vice grip on each of his elbows. There's anguish in those widened green eyes. He looks sickly, cheeks flushed and hair plastered to his forehead.

A wave of dizziness hits Graves before he can amble over and see to him. He collapses against the door, groaning.

“Newt--” he tries to say, but his throat hurts. _Everything_ hurts, his skin burning the muscle beneath.

He makes another pained sound, and so does Newt. They're in sync, almost, and he watches helplessly as Newt's legs slowly start to give. He's descending to the floor, legs splayed outward as he heaves and settles on his hands and knees.

“Mr. Graves,” Newt says, and his voice sounds different somehow. Higher, pleading. He find he can't say anything in return, barely keeping himself standing in the first place.

And then Newt _moans_.

All he can do is gawk, the warmth settling in his cock. His trousers are suddenly painfully tight as Newt crawls toward him.

Suddenly Newt's cheek is nuzzling against his erection. Graves looks down at his blushing face, parted lips, cheek pressed against the cloth, and promptly decides that he needs to be inside Newt this instant.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers settling in Newt's hair. Neither pushing him away or urging him on, because he's still trying to process the image of Newt rubbing himself against Graves like a kneazle in heat.

Newt hums and digs his head in further. The friction against Graves' dick is suffocating; his pants have never felt this tight before and he can't help himself by thrusting back against the pressure.

“You're _so big_.” Newt's voice is muffled (for obvious reasons) but Graves hears him far too clearly and he can feel the rest of his blood abandoning ship to go south. Newt's hand has decided to join the party, palming him through the fabric and then comes the killing blow: “I can't wait to feel you inside me.”

_What._ The single thought is easily ignored and his body moves of his own accord. Graves snarls, hauls Newt up by the hair – when he decided to become so rough with Newt, he's not sure, but it seems to fit the situation somehow.

_What the fuck am I doing,_ a tiny bit of conscience speaks out. But he's too far gone.

In a move so swift it almost seems practiced, he spins Newt around and slams him up the door, hands pinning Newt's wrists overhead as his mouth lunges toward the younger male's in a heated kiss.

This is nothing like the chaste kiss they shared at the reunion. In fact, Graves finds he can't quite haul up that particularly memory, because this feels completely new. Almost dream-like, Newt's lips parting and Graves quickly taking advantage of that by plunging his tongue inside. He swallows Newt's moans, obscene and never-ending as they are, and drowns out his choked “Yes,” as he grips those thin wrists tighter and puts all his weight against Newt's lithe body. He grinds their erections together, pleased at how Newt thrusts back, and fucks his mouth with his tongue as a preview of the acts to follow. He'll fuck Newt against this door if he has to, already thinking of the redhead screaming desperately into his ear, legs wrapped around his waist--

The kiss gets messier, their teeth clacking painfully and Newt even winces when he bites down on those plump lips. But his half-lidded eyes show no protest and his body remains lax under Graves' grip.

He grinds more forcefully against Newt's crotch and the resounding gasp is the most pleasant one he's wrangled out of Newt so far.

But they've only just begun.

He's waited so long for this, dreamed almost nightly about having Newt in his arms. This is a fantasy come true, and his mind hasn't quite accepted it yet, because everything still looks and feels hazy. He lets Newt's wrists go and they wrap around his neck as if having read his mind.

“Look at you, so fucking beautiful, moaning like a whore for me,” he finds himself babbling as Newt's whines go straight to his dick.

And Newt is surprisingly agreeable, blissful in the way his eyes turn glassy. “Oh God, please give it to me, Mr. Graves, _please!_ ”

He never thought he'd hear that combination of words coming out of Newt's lips, but now is not the time to complain. He wants to fuck Newt good and proper, and his cock is so hard it hurts. It's almost impossible to shift his focus away from the other man for one second but somehow he manages, turning his back so he can clear the table with one sweep of an arm.

What's left of the box clatters to the floor and he lifts Newt with a tight grip on his waist, settling him on the table.

Newt gets the message quickly, and he smiles a drunken grin as he leans back, pulling Graves with him. Graves clambers onto the table, settling on top of him.

He looks down and Newt is staring back at him. His eyes are watery and he's biting his lower lip and Graves thinks, _huh, I never thought I'd be seeing him on his back this soon._

But there's no time to waste.

He's not usually one for dirty talk but the words are out before he can even consider whether to say them.“I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk,” he says as he unbutton Newt's trousers, and together, they get them off. “I'm going to keep my dick in you for so long that you'll feel empty any time I'm not deep inside you.”

_That doesn't sound like me, but what the hell._

Newt _loves_ it, though. He throws his head back and arches, his cock poking against Graves' thigh. His hands are on Graves' shoulders, squeezing tight.

“I want your cock so badly, you don't know how long I've needed this, need you to fuck me until I forget my name.” He's smirking – Newt doesn't look much like himself when he smirks, but it's fucking hot, so. And then he says “Hurry, I'm waiting, dear,” and that pesky, nitpicking part of Graves' mind quickly shuts down.

“Of course, baby, just give me a minute...” He tugs open his trousers and frees his aching length, Newt staring at it and making a pleased sound.

“Can't wait any longer, Mr. Graves, I need you in me _now_.” Newt, previously sweet-and-shy, now inexplicably pushy-and-sex-hungry, arches up against him again. He's already spread his legs, thighs bracketing Graves' own and part of him is honestly still in disbelief that this is actually happening.

His hand finds its way under Newt's many layers, sliding up his stomach. The blue coat is already off – Newt is lying on it, the sleeves dangling off the table, and there's a temporary clarity to Graves' thoughts.

“What are you waiting for?” Newt demands, trying to push Graves' hand down to attend to more pressing matters. His brows are furrowed and he looks offended that the fucking hasn't commenced yet.

“Just making sure I don't hurt any beasts that might be hiding in your clothes,” he admits.

“Who cares about them? Just hurry, _please_.” So Graves obeys, and his hand wanders down to Newt's bare thigh. He feels the ridges of scars – _this is real Newt's body is real and here and his for the taking_ – and nudges at the underside flesh, urging the redhead to lock his legs around Graves. Newt gets the message and does so, letting out an impatient sob.

_He wants this so badly,_ Graves thinks, shocked at his willingness. He lets his hand wander idly, slowly, toward Newt's hole, curious as to how desperately he can get the other to react.

_So badly that for once he doesn't want to talk about his creatures._ Newt is jerking, making protesting noises at his sluggishness, so he presses a kiss to those lips and delights at the frustrated noise he gets in response.

_Or even think about them really..._ He jerks himself off with his other hand – not that it needs much help staying hard. 

There's a spell to lubricating a sex partner that he struggles to recall.

_Newt not caring about his creatures is new._

“I swear,” Newt tries to say, but Graves is drowning him out with more kisses so the rest of his sentence comes out mumbled and incoherent. “If your dick isn't in my arse in the next ten seconds – I'm going to--” 

Graves' eyes fly open and he looks down and sees Newt looking _furious_ , his eyes dark and his mouth snarling against his own and he realizes.

_Newt in his right mind would never disregard the welfare of his beasts._

_Never._

With a gasp Graves withdraws and rolls off the table. He retreats, trying to put as much space in between them as possible. Newt – not _his_ Newt, but this twisted, too-sexual fantasy of Newt – realizes too late what's happening, and when he tries to follow, Graves is on the far end of the room and has thrown up a shield charm separating them.

“Mr. Graves?” Newt is pressing his hands against the invisible barrier. His cock is wet and leaking, and he looks so hurt that Graves has to squeeze his eyes shut and tell himself that _this is not the Newt you know_.

When he opens them again Newt is clawing desperately against the shield, face scrunched up in panic.

“What are you doing? Don't you want to fuck me? Please, Mr. Graves--”

He tries to cast a _Silencio_ but his magic was shaky and the last of it was drained by the shield charm. He's still so hard it's killing him and he's curled up against the wall, groaning as Newt continues, unrelenting.

“I need your cock in me, Mr. Graves, why won't you give it to me? Don't you like me? Don't you find me beautiful? If I don't have you I might d-die.” The magizoologist is shedding tears freely now and it hurts to watch. He's fighting every urge to take down the shield charm and bury himself inside Newt, morals be damned.

_This is all just a spell._ He forces the words to repeat themselves in his head. It's his mantra, and no matter how hard his cock gets or how much Newt begs, he _has to_ be firm.

But this version of Newt is sneaky, and utterly _shameless_ , and Graves watches, hypnotized as the other male moves into a kneeling position, his hand reaching down to finger himself.

“Don't you want this?” Newt says, looking directly at him. _This is fake, Newt would never look at you for that long,_ he tries to argue. “I'll even let you come wherever you want, Mr. Graves, you can come in my mouth or all over my face or in my arse if you want, just let me be over there. It hurts so much, please _help me._ ”

He groans in frustration and settles for jerking himself off as Newt plunge three fingers up his own hole, throwing his head back as more pleas tumble from his lips. 

“I can't, I'm so sorry, I can't! Fight it, Newt!” Graves yells, over Newt's screams of “Please!” and his fingers remain tight on his own cock as he watches Newt fuck himself.

When he comes, everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, turns out it was a surprise sex pollen scenario!


	7. Because You Want To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion!

This time, he distinctly knows it's a dream.

He's late for work – the shrieking clock in the hallway reminds him so – but pinning him to the bed is a very disheveled, heavy-lidded Newt Scamander. His curls are in complete disarray, framing his eyes like a veil but the look he's giving Graves is enough to keep him still.

Long fingers are tugging his shirt buttons loose one by one, but his attention is diverted from them when Newt, a surprisingly soft weight on his chest, dives forward and captures his lips in a messy kiss. He groans in appreciation, hands coming to clasp at that narrow waist.

The clock shrieks again. Yes, definitely a dream: he's always at work long before the alarm sounds.

But he doesn't mind settling into this temporary world for now, so he licks into the redhead's mouth and delights at the squeak he gets in return. Newt draws back, wiping his mouth with a laugh. But on his face are red specks of liquid, trickling down his cheeks and he's frozen with shock.

Graves nearly jumps, but Newt is now impossibly heavy, staring at him with frightened eyes and a face streaked with blood--

“Newt!” He wakes with a gasp, and immediately groans in pain at the soaring ache in his back.

Peering around suspiciously, he recognizes the alarming intensity of white décor, from the walls to the sheets to the gown loosely pinned around him.

“Wakey wakey, dragon eggs and bakey!” O'Brien is a jarring, brown-jacketed figure nestled in an armchair at his side. He looks like he's been sitting there for a long while, based on the diminutive length of his cigarette.

Cue migraine.

“You couldn't have bothered to put me in the non-smoking wing?”

“Nope,” comes the cheerful reply and for added measure he takes a few more puffs just to piss him off.

He exhales, the images flooding back. The words pour out in a panicked rush before he can stop them. “Is Newt okay? What was it? Where's Fontaine run off to? That fucker, I'm going to kill him with my bare hands.”

Without missing a beat, O'Brien retains his amused smile and dusts the end of his stick on the ashtray.

“Newt is fine. He's been awake for a while, been itching for a discharge actually, but the mediwizards won't let him on account of the, ah, bruising.” 

Graves doesn't blush. By sheer nerve, he has rendered his physiology incapable of it.

But remembering what happened, the feel of Newt's cheek pressed against his trousers, the filthy, _filthy_ things he said and the warmth emanating from the lithe body beneath his own, well--

This time he comes pretty damn close. His reaction doesn't go unnoticed, of course, because his partner's smile is stretching to lengths he didn't think possible.

“He's otherwise unsullied, though... In case you were wondering.”

“ _What was it?_ ”

“It was water, mixed with red food coloring. You were actually just really horny.”

With a growl he levitates the closest object he can find, which happens to be an empty vase. Before he can fling it at O'Brien, the man holds up his hands, yelling. “Joking. JOKING! It was veela blood! Those goddamn nurses, I'd told them to spell everything down just so you wouldn't do this shit.”

The vase drops back onto the table.

“And the bastard?”

“Shaken when he came to me and asked me for help. Haven't exactly seen him since. Sorry, he's not exactly the flower-sending type.”

_Veela blood_ , he should've known. Veelas weren't native to the United States, so the chances of encountering them on the field were extremely low. But he was familiar with the substance's effects, having aced the Magical Maladies and Toxicology classes during auror training.

Anyone affected by veela blood would feel an overwhelming increase in libido, leading to uncontrollable acts of lust.

Something unpleasant twists in his belly. And to think, he had been thinking of leaving Fontaine alone with Newt before that happened. There was no trusting someone as weak-minded as Fontaine would've done...

Despite the twinges in his joints (and crotch) Graves hauls himself off the bed, already headed for the door.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Newt,” he growls, trying to walk off the tremor in his knees. There's a gust of cold air breezing through his lower torso but he ignores the scantiness of his hospital gown and proceeds. “I need to see Newt--”

O'Brien's voice follows him out into the hallway despite his best attempts to ignore it. “Don't you think he's seen more than enough of you? I mean, really, at least cover your bare ass first-- don't _moon_ me while you're walking away from me, for Isolt's sake, Boss--”

He stumbles into Newt's hospital room. The magizoologist is sitting up in bed, looking all but frail and on the verge of being swallowed up by his similarly pale gown. But perhaps it's the overabundance of white, and the way the light shines through the window and highlight his face that make Newt look more angelic than ever before.

Or perhaps the Veela blood is still taking effect, but Graves knows that that's hardly the case.

“Mr. Graves. I thought I'd heard someone.” Newt's hands are twisted in the blanket covering his lap and he looks down again, voice trailing off.

Graves has to keep from physically cringing. It's mortifying for the both of them, he knows that better than anyone. But the sooner they can put this incident behind them, the better. And if pretending it never happened is Newt's chosen modus then he's happy to go along with it.

He settles down on a chair, O'Brien slinking into the room, clearly finding the escalating awkwardness between them to be the most entertaining scene in years.

“Are you--” His voice comes out hoarse so he clears his throat. “Are you alright?” Newt spares him a momentary glance again, expression caught somewhere in between a grimace and a smile.

“A bit of aching but apart from my pride, nothing's been permanently damaged.” 

The harrowing images flash in his mind again and he finds it incredibly difficult not to focus on Newt's lips, which were, just mere hours ago, vocalizing very strongly about needing to be fucked. 

He has to mentally will the memories away, at least for now. Thank Merlin he's good at compartmentalizing.

“I'm truly so--” Newt starts to say, but Graves stirs impatiently.

“Don't apologize. Nothing happened.” Newt ducks his head and nods, red-faced. Clearly not as good at compartmentalizing. “Did you figure out what was in the box?” He queries, to offer some form of distraction.

It works, because Newt lights up again. Leaning away from him, the wizard opens the bedside drawer and pulls out the vial. 

“I was waiting for you to wake up so I could tell you, actually.” He hands the bottle over. In the process, their fingers touch, slightly, and he shouldn't even have noticed that but he does. 

“It's a _thestral hair_. And I was baffled because those don't have any magical use, at least as far as we know. You can't knit them into anything, the magic imbued in them is very unstable and most people can't even see them. So why hide one under lock or key? I started thinking.”

Even O'Brien has shut up for once to hear Newt out. The redhead's next words come out in a rushed breath, racing to catch up to whatever new revelations formed in that clever mind.

“All the other animal byproducts we've managed to round up, all the cases regarding beasts that've been popping up these few months, are all connected, aren't they? One clue leading to the other. It started with demiguise pelts, used for invisibility cloaks. And then suddenly we were chasing wampus hairs, phoenix tail feathers, unicorn tail hairs. What they all have in common is that they're all used as wand cores.”

Graves rolls the vial in his hand, studying the hair from different angles. Without Newt he would've assumed it was just a regular strand plucked from some brunette who doesn't use rollers often enough.

“So we've got invisibility cloaks, and powerful wands, and then this thestral hair, a symbol of death. We're missing something, a final piece of the puzzle. And I don't think we're going to find it here.”

“Where should we look?”

“My former professor, Albus Dumbledore, at Hogwarts. He was fond of telling us old wizard folklore and I know, all of this has to do with ancient magic somehow. Grindelwald's symbol, everything. It's all connected. I think we should visit him. I plan to leave in a week.”

_We._

For once, Newt looks very pointedly and deliberately at him. From the way his eyebrows knit together it's clear he's physically forcing himself to do so. He swallows, and then says, very slowly:

“Would you like to accompany me, Mr. Graves?”

_Yes,_ a part of him volunteers. But somehow, he can't get his mouth to open.

_Say yes, idiot._ And really, he can't think of reasons to say no. 

_You need this._

He stares at Newt, looking over at his sunlit curls. The pleading expression on his face. _The look._ Newt is close enough to touch, and not more than a few hours after their little encounter, is once again offering himself up to Graves, this time in a different way.

There's a tug in his chest that quickly turns painful, and he slumps like a great weight has suddenly been dumped on his back.

He opens his mouth, and out come words that surprise even him.

“I'm afraid I'm busy. Perhaps one of the aurors will agree to go with you, but I have a lot to do here.”

Newt recoils like he's just been slapped. “But--”

“Thank you for cracking the case, Newt. It was a,” he says, standing. It's difficult to ignore the pain in his chest, but he jerks his head at the figure on the bed. “...Great pleasure working with you and should I need help with a magical creature-related case, I won't hesitate to contact you in the future.”

“Boss,” O'Brien erupts, shooting out of his seat in disbelief. “What the hell--”

“Good day.”

He leaves light-headed, his mind feeling hallowed out. Graves shuts the door behind him and keeps walking. And keeps walking.

–

Newt stares down at his hands, his vision glowing blurry. After everything they've been through – the dance, the bar, the reunion, they got _engaged_ for God's sake – Graves looks at him and still sees someone not worth having, apparently. Pressing his lips into a thin line, he tries to will himself not to cry.

It doesn't work.

“I think I underestimated how painful rejection would be,” he admits, and with a resigned sigh, rubs at his eyes.

O'Brien grabs the bed frame at Newt's feet, visibly panicking. “Oh, man. Newt, please _please_ don't cry, seeing you like that makes me feel like I killed a unicorn. Graves is an idiot, okay? But he'll come around. He'll--”

“He won't. I've given him plenty of chances.”

“You gotta give him one more. If you had heard him earlier, when he just woke up... The guy was ready to tear Fontaine limb from limb for putting you in harm's way.”

With a bitter laugh Newt turns to the window. “He's always disliked Fontaine.”

“This was different. Him and Fontaine go way back to Ilvermorny, you know. Some stupid school rivalry thing. Long story short, they tried out for the same Quidditch position. First person to catch the snitch would get it. Guess who won?”

In spite of everything Newt allows himself a wry smile. O'Brien has always been good at cheering him up. The image of Graves soaring on a broom, zipping through the air with an outstretched arm is strangely comical. “He never struck me as...”

“The seeker type? No shit. Graves has beater written all over him. So he got that slot instead. Any team he went against, he'd land their seeker in the hospital. Sometimes his own team's seeker, too. The point is, he never stops wanting what he can't have.”

“I see.”

Newt looks down, at the vial idly being twisted between his fingers.

He has a plan. It's ridiculous, but it just might work.

–

Only when he barges into Fontaine's office does Newt realizes that perhaps not all aurors are like Graves, who lets him come and go as he pleases. The man behind the desk looks visibly startled, then his features darken into a frown upon seeing him.

But Newt doesn't allow that to deter him, already striding forward into the room. He has survived far worse things, and the wrath of an annoyed government employee is nothing new.

“Mr. Fontaine, do you recall when Grindelwald struck you with a _Petrificus totalus_? And then I defeated him?” He speaks in one rushed breath, stopping in front of the desk. Fontaine is staring at him and he defiantly looks back, even though it takes every ounce of effort to not look away and start apologizing profusely.

If he squints, Fontaine looks remarkably like Graves. Sort of, with a few disfigurements. But the resemblance is a key factor in Newt's plan.

“Yes, I recall that moment very well,” Fontaine says reluctantly, after a moment's silence. His upper lip is curled in annoyance and Newt falters a bit, but soldiers on. He must.

“You told me then that you owed me for saving your life.” With a grin he usually only reserves for when he's safe and happy inside his case, Newt leans forward, placing his hands on the desk. He continues, looking at Fontaine from under his eyelashes. “I'd like to ask you for a series of favors, if that's alright with you.”

“Series? Now hold on--”

Newt yanks on his ridiculously long tie, pulling the man forward so that their faces are inches apart. “Your life is hardly worth just one favor, after all,” he says in a low voice.

Despite the telltale blush coloring his cheeks Newt manages a smirk, maintaining his show of bravado. After all, after so many undercover missions he's learned more than just a thing or two about playing a part.

–

Graves' week is off to a miserable start.

His office seems to have lost its luster, ever since a certain magizoologist stopped dropping by. It's gone cold and dim there, oddly quiet without the chatter of some wayward animal. And wherever Newt went, he's taken O'Brien with him. His partner no longer drapes himself all over the guest chair and annoys him until he's physically ejected out of the room.. Strangely enough, Graves finds himself missing the pervasive smell of tobacco.

Newt, for his own good, is best left alone. But Graves can't work without a partner, and if he's going to commiserate then he needs someone there to take the brunt of his self-pity. So he waits outside the building one morning, ready to chew out the other for their lack of loyalty. There's a familiar crack (O'Brien is the only one who apparates and produces a trail of smoke whenever he does so) and a toothy grin greets him.

“Boss,” O'Brien says. “Waiting all this time for me? Aw, you shouldn't have.”

Graves says hello back by pushing a folder to his chest and swiveling around. “Where the hell have you been?” He barks as they cross the threshold together, the familiar brass-lined stairs and marble floor MACUSA materializing in front of them. “Picquery's got another case for us and it's a damn doozy, too. If you hadn't been--”

“Oh, look,” O'Brien says, the way one would point out a particularly interestingly-shaped cloud. “It's Fontaine.”

“Why would I give a damn about--” He stops in his tracks, mind breaking over what he's just witnessed.

His arch-rival sitting on a bench. Reading the newspaper. Graves has never known Fontaine to loiter about in the MACUSA lobby before, so this is new. But that's not the part that makes him freeze up, a throbbing vein in his forehead now threatening to burst.

It's Newt Scamander. Stretched out on the bench, with his head on Fontaine's lap. Looking up and reading the papers along with him. Both are focused on the _New York Ghost_ as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Acting like Newt laying his head on Fontaine's lap is a normal occurrence.

“Oh,” Newt says, finally noticing him. He turns his head a bit but does not bother sitting up or trying to regain some modicum of decency. No, he's still using Fontaine's thighs as a pillow. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning,” Graves croaks.

Newt turns back to the newspaper, to Fontaine. Enjoying the feel of Fontaine's body, a smile playing on his lips. Fontaine turns the page.

Graves pulls O'Brien along, setting off at a brisk pace. He feels the blood draining from his face, replaced by the fury welling up inside him.

O'Brien laughs. “Seems like Newt's finally found himself a boyfriend. Happy for him.”

“ _Shut up._ ” He's supposed to sound angry, but it comes out as a pathetic whine instead.

–

Somehow, he tricks himself into believing it was a one-off thing. That perhaps Newt was just having a headache, and Fontaine happened to be there, and Newt would've lain his head on any lap that was available. It was just a coincidence. Because Newt would _never_ do such a thing, to consider dating Fontaine, not after what Fontaine did to them.

So Graves is properly surprised when he and O'Brien turn up at the cafeteria one afternoon to refill their empty coffee mugs, and Newt and Fontaine are seated at a table next to the one with the percolator.

Graves tries to avert his gaze but he can't. Because even while filling his cup, he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Fontaine lifting a fork to Newt's mouth. It's got a bit of sausage on it, and Newt slowly, tortuously, opens his mouth wide to receive it. And after chewing and swallowing he actually _giggles_.

Throughout the whole affair, Fontaine still wears the expression of someone watching paint dry.

There's a soft cracking noise and Graves looks down and sees drops of brown leaking from the sides of his cup. O'Brien leans in and fixes it with a _Reparo_ , and softly, whispers in Graves' ear.

“I think they're dating.”

“They aren't,” he says through his teeth.

“We just watched Fontaine feed Newt his sausage. I'm pretty sure they're dating.” 

Graves swears just as his mug starts leaking again.

–

He makes it a point, after that, to look away whenever he sees even the slightest flash of blue. He takes the long route to his office, making sure to avoid crossing paths with his least favorite auror. But of course, bumping into the man is inevitable. Graves stops in his tracks when he sees a figure moving down the hall, a familiar billow of black cloth.

It's Fontaine's silhouette, but the clothes don't match.

He breaks into a jog to catch up to the man, scaring a few interns in the process. But this time, he can't ignore it. Newt has struck a low blow.

“What the fuck do you think you're wearing?” He demands, yanking at Fontaine's shoulder. The other auror swivels around. “That's my coat.” Fontaine blanches, looks down at his attire.

“Um, I'm afraid not.”

“Um, I'm afraid so,” he mimics, gesturing at the cuffs. “See? The buttons even have 'P.G.' inscribed on them.”

“Your little friend gave it to me. The Brit. Devon, was it?”

“It's _Newton._ ”

“Yes,” he says, not caring either way. “I rather like it. And it fits me quite well. No offense, Percival, but this wouldn't look as good on you anyway.”

Fontaine turns on his heel and proceeds, leaving Graves standing motionless in the hall. He's at a loss for words, biting back one last exclamation (something along the lines of “It's mine, give it back!” but that would be childish) and instead closing his eyes. 

The coat he so lovingly wrapped around Newt outside The Horny Serpent, re-gifted to his worst enemy like it's nothing.

He hasn't felt this defeated since, well, Grindelwald, but even the dark wizard of their time doesn't deserve to be compared to someone so incompetent.

As the full weight of dejection sets in Graves holes himself up in his office, morose and unresponsive as O'Brien does the verbal equivalent of poking him with a stick. His partner resorts to describing in graphic detail what Fontaine and Newt are probably currently doing at the former's office, but his mouth clamps shut the moment the door opens. Both of them turn their heads in surprise.

All Graves can hear is white noise, and all he can focus on are Newt's shaky hands as the magizoologist enters the room, gesturing and rambling about something.

But Graves is so steeped in his own misery that he can barely hear Newt and refuses to look into those green eyes, in fear of sinking deeper into inadequacy. All he knows is Newt is saying goodbye, something about a portkey whisking him and Fontaine off in less than an hour.

He nods absently. Newt's hands have always been nice: long fingers with an array of freckles and scars that add character rather than deform the skin. Those very hands place something on his desk, a small object that lands with a soft clink. They draw back, and Newt wipes his eyes.

Gaze drawing away from Newt's retreating back, Graves stares at the ring that has just been returned to him. The ring from their (fake) engagement, that the niffler stole.

It's gaudy and some of the paint is already chipping off, leaving unsightly black spots on it, yet Graves treasures it in his palms with quivering fingers.

Something in him caves and he squeezes it in his fist.

There's a loud scraping noise as a chair is pushed back, and suddenly O'Brien is in front of him, hauling him to his feet... Then socking him in the face.

“What the fuck!” Graves cries out, hand flying to his now aching jaw.

“You're right. Terribly sorry,” O'Brien replies, vanishing the aching bruise. Then he raises his fist, preparing to punch the same spot again.

Graves grabs his wrist and shoves him back. “Stop it!”

“Again, I'm sorry!” O'Brien hollers, furious. “But I can no longer sit idly by while you fuck up the only good person to happen to you since yours truly.”

“It's too late,” he mutters. “He's gone, he's with him.”

Looking all but fed up with him O'Brien grabs him by the lapels, amping up the melodrama further. “Are you going to let Fontaine catch the golden snitch from right under your nose?! Again?!”

Graves stumbles backward, O'Brien's words stinging a lot more than his punch did. The ring is hot in his palms, his last reminder of Newt before the magizoologist sets off on an adventure without him. He looks back at the folder on the desk. “But the case--”

“I'll handle it.”

“Picquery--”

“Will be pissed, but what else is new? Go now, get your speech ready for when he leaps into your arms and says: _'Oh, Mr, Graves, I want_...'” Speaking in the worst imitation of a British accent Graves has ever heard, O'Brien continues in a low whisper. “ _'...To have your fantastic beast inside me_.” The man cackles, ignoring his glare.

There's not much time. He briefly considers jinxing O'Brien but decides against it. He'll save it for someone else instead, so Graves turns on the spot and disapparates with a crack.

 

–

 

Portkey Square is not on official MACUSA grounds. Situated in one of the nondescript boroughs of New York City, that very location is the reason why Graves does not like traveling by portkey.

Because the place happens to be, well, a literal dump.

Garbage is strewn about an otherwise empty lot, and it is common to see groups of wizards huddled around some mud-streaked household item, ready to be whisked away to various corners of the globe. When he arrives, he has found he has accidentally apparated into a puddle. His shoes are now muddy, but he simply stomps out of it in search of Newt.

The redhead is not hard to find, standing next to Fontaine in one of the clearings, holding up what appears to be a broken clock.

Graves comes thundering, wand out.

“Stay away from him!” It's unnecessarily confrontational and needlessly aggressive the way he points the wand tip right at Fontaine's trousers. Upon muttering a spell under his breath, the other man shrieks, and a huge worm with dozens of scaly legs crawls up out of his pants.

“Screw the favors! I can't do this!” Fontaine says with a single glance at Newt, before disapparating. Well, that was remarkably easy. Graves pockets his wand and turns around, Newt staring at him with very wide eyes.

“Did you just transfigure his penis into a centipede?”

“Bah, I've done it before. He ought to know the counter-curse by now. But enough about him. I don't ever want to hear about him, ever again. You.” He steps forward, grabbing Newt's waist and pulling him close. The flush in Newt's cheeks triggers instantaneously but he doesn't try to escape. His voice shaky with frustration, Graves goes on. “You play dirty. That's not fair. You're a beautiful, cruel little minx--”

“Cruel? Me?” Newt frowns, hands settling on his shoulders. He half-expects to be throttled. Merlin knows he deserves it. “You rejected me time and time again, even though I gave you a million bloody chances.”

“I know, I know, I'm sorry, I was a jerk, I was a fucking bastard...” He trails off, hearing a hitch in Newt's breath. The redhead draws back to swipe at the corner of his eye, leaving him bewildered. “Wait, why are you crying?!”

“Do,” Newt says, voice breaking off into a sob. He's still scrubbing at his red face, but his other fist tightens on Graves' jacket. “Do you actually like me?”

He blinks, incredulous. And then swoops down and presses his mouth against Newt's, capturing those famous lips in what is for once, a genuine, completely deliberate kiss. He had hoped the real deal would be far more romantic than this, given that all their other accidental kisses were in much more elegant settings, rather than in a foul-smelling dump.

But it's perfect anyway, Newt melting against him. He rests his hand at the small of Newt's back and feels a shudder in return. Pulling away, Graves eyes him with a smirk. “What do _you_ think?”

Newt's gaze shifts around the vicinity for a moment, a brief look of distress on his face as he realizes that they're doing this in public. But hell, no one's around, no one will get to see the lovely hue that Newt turns when Graves pulls him against his chest and nuzzles his face into the familiar red curls.

He presses the ring into one of Newt's hands and closes his fist for him. “Never give this back to me, ever, not until I replace it someday with actual silver. Are we clear?”

With an embarrassed laugh Newt stares at him in disbelief. Then he breaks out one of his brilliant smiles, the one where he shows all of his teeth and makes Graves forget how to breathe. He can't resist so he leans in and kisses the other male again.

“I think you're getting ahead of yourself,” Newt whispers. It's his turn to press his lips against Graves' jaw.

“I think I need to be inside you as soon as possible,” he murmurs huskily. Newt visibly swallows before nodding.

“F-fair point.”

They portkey to Alaska and head for the closest inn. The concierge eyes them warily at first when Graves specifically asks for a room with a single bed. Newt remains quiet by his side, staring at his shoes despite the telling flare on his cheeks. But when the key is handed over, Newt's fingers find his and squeeze hard.

They run up the stairs like lovesick teenagers, Newt tripping midway. Impatient, Graves scoops him up into his arms, ignoring the undignified squawk he gets in response, and apparates the rest of of the distance (a mere thirty steps) into their bedroom.

“So eager,” Newt says, round-eyed and incredulous as Graves deposits him on the bed. Having toed off his muddy shoes, he slips out of his jacket and vest, occupied with the dual task of declothing Newt and tasting his lips at the same time.

"Why do you have to wear so many fucking layers?" He grumbles, pawing at Newt's coat. The magizoologist laughs and shrugs it off, leaving Graves to work on stripping off his waistcoat.  
“How long have you wanted this?”

“Since the car ride,” he replies, with a triumphant flick of the last button. He presses Newt down against the bed, their chests rubbing together and he swipes at Newt's ear with his tongue. “With your ass pressed right up against my dick.”

“Oh god, that _was_ oddly sexual, wasn't it?” Newt turns his head, cheek pressed to the sheets in embarrassment. It's intoxicating, his shyness at Graves' words even when he's down to his underwear. Graves removes the last of his own garments and Newt's gaze travels downward and stays there, transfixed.

“You?”

“The wampus,” he murmurs, still eyeing Graves' cock. Graves knows that look. It's not _the look_ , but rather the same expression he has when admiring a new creature. Which makes it all the more flattering, in a bizarre way, that he's as enthused by the sight of Graves' cock as he is seeing a brand new beast. “And so many times after that, I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, clambering on top of the redhead and leaning down to mouth at his neck, a reminder of the old mark he'd made when the wampus was threatening to devour them both.

Newt shivers, but tips his head back to provide better access.

“If you're going to have your cock up my arse then I should hope that you're more articulate than that,” he scoffs, voice markedly strained. This gives Graves pause so he pushes himself on his elbows and peers down at the flushed male.

“I wasn't expecting you to be so forward.”

Newt bites his lip, averting his gaze. Which has always been strangely attractive on its own but now looks downright sinful when he's naked and on his back. "I don't think I have any embarrassment left over. You watched me finger myself and then beg you to fuck me."

His cock is practically aching and it twitches against Newt's thigh, demanding and smearing pre-come on the pale skin. Newt spreads his legs, allowing Graves to settle in between them. 

“About that, does your offer still stand? Will you really let me come anywhere?” With a mortified sound Newt buries his head against Graves' chest, his soft hair tickling Graves' collarbone. It's so adorable he has to suppress the urge to laugh, but it's also intensifying his desire to bury himself inside Newt this instant. So Graves reaches down, fingers lightly brushing against Newt's hole as he mutters the lubrication spell.

“Gently, please,” Newt whispers, and that stops him for a moment, reminding him that the last thing he wants to do is damage someone so pure and _good_. So he takes his time as Newt draws up his body in anticipation.

With a guiding hand Graves takes his cock and slowly nudges the head inside Newt's body. The spell helps the muscles relax, allowing him to take it in one movement. Newt lets out a muffled groan, arching up against Graves as the head breeches him. He groans into Newt's hair and slips an arm under his waist to help secure his body in that position, before driving in at a slow pace just like the other male asked.

The tightness enveloping his cock has him gasping, and Newt lets out a broken sound as his knees brace against Graves' legs. He's moving, but Newt is now moving with him, pushing downward to take more of Graves' cock.

“Fuck,” he spits out the only word he can muster, grasping at Newt's waist now. The redhead throws his head back and Graves sees his face, eyes red-rimmed and mouth swollen and open and panting. With an audible whine Newt's hands clutch at his shoulders and tug him downward, beckoning him to go deeper. Graves does until the base of his cock is nudging at Newt's rim. They shudder and go still until Newt grasps at the hairs on his nape and looks at him, his eyes dark.

“ _Move_ ,” he says, expression pleading. So Graves does. He pulls back until only the cock head is in Newt and slams inward again, shifting Newt further up the bed. Pleased at the desperate cry spilling from that sinful mouth, Graves develops a rhythm. Even the scraping of nails against his back feels pleasant and he lets out a guttural moan as he fucks Newt harder.

He finds it mildly amusing that Newt turns out to be just as noisy whether or not he's bewitched by veela blood, cries getting louder as his walls tighten around Graves' dick. “Right there,” he says with a gasp as Graves thrusts in, focusing on that one spot that makes Newt visibly shake. “Yes, don't stop--”

He figures it's okay to make requests of his own. “Scream for me,” he says, but it seems to only remind Newt of how much noise is making, because he immediately reddens and does the opposite by covering his mouth with his hand.

“Come on,” Graves urges, with a powerful thrust. He receives a broken sob in return, Newt's eyes becoming glassy but his palm firm over his lips. “No one can hear you,” he reminds him. The rooms come with silencing spells for a reason.

“You make such beautiful sounds, it's a shame you're so embarrassed by them.”

He eventually gets that scream. Upon quickening his pace and relentlessly burying himself to the hilt each time, Newt is moaning wantonly and Graves wraps his hand around Newt's dick. A few pumps later and it does the trick, Newt arching, reaching his orgasm with a loud cry. 

Graves follows soon after, spurting inside Newt and filling him with seed. He almost wants to apologize as he slowly pulls out, Newt wincing and pressing his legs together as come trickles out of his hole. There's so much of it, months' worth of pent up sexual frustration dripping out of Newt's ass, some of it splattered on his thighs. An entrancing, filthy image.

He almost can't believe it's real. He urges Newt's knees apart so he can smear his hand on his own fluid, spreading globs of it around Newt's entrance.

“Stop that,” Newt whines, trying to twist his body away. How quickly he's transitioned back to being shy. “Don't be gross,” he adds. While pouting, of all things.

Definitely real, Graves thinks with a chuckle.

–

Newt wakes up on a soft bed, in a brightly-lit room. There's an arm wrapped around his waist and something firm pressing against his backside that makes him blush and think _oh, this is certainly different_. He turns, looks around at the man sharing the bed with him. Even in slumber Graves' eyebrows are at an appraising slant. The firm object is now pressed to his front and Newt smiles and corrects himself: _oh, this is certainly something he could get used to._

He twirls a lock of black hair around his finger, and counts the stray whiskers sprouting around Graves' chin. Feeling a bit daring he manages to slip out of the man's grip and slowly crawl onto the prone form's lap.

Making sure not to put his full weight on him (yet), Newt leans down, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Seeing Graves like this, with his guard down, makes him feel strangely triumphant. It's hard to believe he did this, that he is solely responsible for Graves' current blissful state. Who knew taming MACUSA's best auror would be a lot like taming an actual wampus? Like the one that has settled into his case since the incident, Graves started out ferocious and unpredictable. Now he's sleeping in Newt's bed.

Rather, _their_ bed, he thinks with a surge of delight.

It's supposed to be an innocent move, really: he rearranges his legs on either side of Graves so he can find a more comfortable position on Graves' lap. But by doing so his ass brushes against Graves' length and he freezes, mortified as the auror sleepily opens his eyes.

“Good morning,” he says with a guilty smile.

“Good morning.” Graves rubs at his hair, blinking profusely as he takes in his surroundings. His dark eyes fixate on Newt, who nearly wilts under the intense gaze until Graves finally speaks. “Damn. You're gorgeous, you know that?” 

With an unexpected compliment and a large hand now rubbing circles on his hip bone, Newt falters, his face heating up. “Thank you.”

“Can't believe I woke up to something so perfect, you straddling me like this. Is it an invitation?”

With a sharp inhale, Newt doesn't bother to hide his shock.“You want to go... Again?” But the bulge nudging insistently against his backside is the answer he's looking for. He should've known that this was going to happen, what else did he expect by waking up the other man this way? 

Sensing his trepidation, Graves backpedals. “Only if you want to, of course?”

It seems Newt's own body can't decide what it wants, either. He's hard – who wouldn't be, after having someone like Graves speak to them like that – and even though his limbs feel sore and he desperately needs a shower, the ache energizes him, makes him curious for more.

Later on, when he's riding Graves' cock and groaning in sync with the man beneath him, his hands scrabbling at the headboard for purchase, Newt realizes how foolish it is to doubt his own want.

–

He was hoping to make it to Hogwarts within three days.

The problem is, they keep stopping.

The _bigger_ problem is, they keep stopping for reasons completely unrelated to their mission. Though Graves would not consider 'having too much sex' to be a problem at all, Newt would call it an addiction at this point.

An addiction that he has no interest in curing.

He blames Graves, of course. Damn Graves and his alluring eyebrows, and his inappropriate comments that come out every time they're in public. Or whenever they've just checked into a hotel. Or upon checkout (yes, really). Or even when Newt's just trying to be productive for once, feeding the animals inside the case, and Graves always waits for him to be carrying something before he flusters Newt with a compliment, causing him to drop said item.

It's annoying, really, Graves' underhanded tactics for luring him into bed.

Graves' cock, though, is amazing, Newt'll give him that. There's a distinction. Graves' cock is perfect, and Newt would is utterly enamored by said cock. Though he is less enamored by Graves' bold suggestion that he include said cock in a future edition of his book.

The days and countries have started to blur together, but to Newt's mortification, Graves' cock has remained a constant in every setting.

He distinctly remembers Floo-ing to Siberia after Alaska, and that while there he spent most of his time on his hands and knees. At one point an owl tapped its beak on the window and Graves read out a letter from O'Brien. But upon getting to the word “sexpedition” he promptly burnt the parchment without reading the rest of it. After that, Newt's not quite sure of what came next. He has hazy memories of being fucked against a shelf somewhere in Poland and being bent over a desk in Germany. 

By the time they've hit the Leaky Cauldron, Newt feels like a completely different person.

He looks over, at the sharp planes of Graves' figure buying ice cream. The novelty has not worn off, of having someone by his side, to do coupley things like secretly hold hands while walking down cobblestone pathways. He never thought he'd have someone to share food (and a bed) with. It's odd looking forward to something other than his suitcase and it's strange that one man could have such a profound effect on him. Making him different, making him bolder (and, admittedly, sexier, though he'd never say that out loud).

Graves returns with a mountain of different flavors stacked on a measly cone, held up by magic and they share a laugh at the thought of consuming the entire thing.

“It actually tastes as good as you said it would,” Graves says grudgingly, after they've had a few bites.

“Fortescue's has been around since forever, of course it is.”

They take turns wiping out layer after layer between conversations about beasts and cases, and Dumbledore. When Graves asks when the Hogwarts Express leaves and Newt hesitates, he asks “What's wrong?” leaving the magizoologist fidgeting in his seat.

“There's one tomorrow but I was hoping to take the next one instead,” he mumbles. “It, ah, still hurts to sit down. Long journeys are not advisable.”

Graves stares at him. Newt doesn't miss the way his eyes have darkened with desire. He's been on the receiving end of that look constantly these past few days so he just smiles back, not quite immune to Graves' charm but no longer getting tongue-tied over every lustful gaze.

"It's starting to drip. Finish the damn thing, already,” Graves says suddenly.

Newt has a daring moment, leaning forward as his thumping heart makes his chest heavy. He licks at the edge of the cone, tongue brushing against Graves' fingers in the process. It's long and slow and he stares at the man under his eyelashes as he does it. Graves is looking at him, eyes wide and perfect brows arched in surprise.

"What have I done to deserve you?" He says. And Newt blushes and looks back down at his lap, pretending it didn't happen. He's still learning to not be reduced to a flustered mess from Graves' compliments, but there hasn't been much progress in that area, unfortunately.

Not more than half an hour later in their bedroom at the Leaky Cauldron, his tongue is working hard at Graves' cock.

“I didn't mean to cause you so much pain,” Graves gasps. Ironically, his grip on Newt's hair tightens as he says it. The man is always surprisingly apologetic during sex, perhaps never forgetting Newt's initial plea to be gentle.

But Newt is no longer happy with just gentle. He tries to prove this by taking more of Graves' cock into his mouth, until it's hitting the back of his throat. The auror lets out a myriad of swears and Newt looks up to admire the view. Beads of sweat are running down the sides of Graves' face. He looks wrecked, and rightfully so. Newt beams up at him, proud of his hard work. Lips still wrapped around his length. Hopefully, Graves got the message, because he's too busy to talk at the moment and doesn't want to ruin the momentum he has going.

It seems Graves does get it because his hand settles, palm up on his lap and next to Newt's face. Newt quickly understands, and while sucking Graves deeper into his mouth, places his hand in the other male's grip.

He holds on tight and his mind lets go.

\--

“Holy shit,” O'Brien exclaims, coughing out smoke when Newt and Graves happen to apparate next to him on the steps outside Woolworth. “Holy shit,” he says again, when he glances down at their linked fingers.

Gathering his bearings his surprised gasp morphs into a familiar leer. “If I did a hickey-revealing charm right now, I wonder which one of you two would light up like a goddamn Christmas tree? Ten bucks says it's Newt.”

The two exchange glances and then Newt steps forward and plucks the cigarette out of O'Brien's mouth, before dropping it to the floor and squishing it under his boot. “You should really quit smoking, Mr. O'Brien. It's bad for your health,” he says with a disapproving glance.

The grin slides off O'Brien's face.

“Now if you'll excuse us, we have valuable information to pass on to the President.” Ignoring the man's stunned expression, he turns toward the revolving doors. “And then we're going to fuck in Mr. Graves' office.”

Graves allows himself to be pulled along, trailing behind Newt and fingers laced with his. He remains silent, planning to thank the man later, but for now he spares O'Brien a smirk and a wink right before they disappear into the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I'd like to thank everyone who supported this little fic of mine. Let me just say that this is officially the first chaptered fic I've finished in more than ten years, and it's all thanks to the helpful comments and suggestions that kept me going even when I wasn't in the mood to write. This story is riddled with inconsistencies and mispellings that I still have to go back and fix (at some points Newt's eyes went from blue to green to blue, oh God I suck so much) but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Hope this final chapter is satisfying to read!
> 
> I've really fallen in love with Gramander so I plan to write a veela!Newt fic soon. If you see that pop up then just know it's from me. Thanks again to everyone who introduced me to this wonderful pairing and to those who kept encouraging me. You guys are the best.


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